UC-NRLF 


flOE    301 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


IN  APRIL   ONCE 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR : 
SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS  AND  OTHER  POEMS 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 


BY 
WILLIAM  ALEXANDER  PERCY 

AUTHOR    OF 
"SAPPHO  IN  LEVKAS  AND  OTHER  POEMS" 


NEW  HAVEN 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON   •  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  •  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

MDCCCCXX 


^       LIBRARY 
SiT 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY 
YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 


I  wish  to  thank  the  editors  of  The  Bellman,  The 
Bookman,  The  Boston  Transcript,  Contemporary 
Verse,  The  North  American  Review  and  Scribner's 
Magazine  for  their  permission  to  include  in  this  vol 
ume  the  poems  which  have  already  appeared  in  those 
publications. 

W.  A.  P. 


TO 
MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  FATHER 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PART  I.     SICILIANA  PAGE 

In  April  Once       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  15 

New  Moon  ...........  59 

Where  Ilium  Was  Proud  .      .     ....     .  60 

Euripides     .      .      .     .,     .      ...      .  '  *     .  61 

Farewell  to  Etna ...      .  62 

The  Immortal  Residue     .      •.     ...      .      .63 

Set  of  Moon       .....      .      .     .     .    .,  65 

PART  II.    LYRICAL,  PIECES 

Overtones .      .69 

In  New  York : 

1.  On  Sunday  Morning     .      .      ...      .  70 

2.  The  Song  You  Love       .      ...      .      .  70 

3.  Weariness .     .      .  71 

4.  In  the  Night  .      .      .     :     .     .     .     .      .  72 

5.  Home ,      ....  72 

The  Wanderer ;  .      .     ;.,     .     .  74 

The  Man  in  White       .      ....     .      .      .  76 

The  Wood 78 

In  the  Storm   ..........  79 

Mr.  W.  H.  to  the  Poet       .      ...      .      .      .  80 

November 81 

Prologue .      .      .  82 

To  an  Old  Tune .     •  83 

A  Hunger  Song     .      .      .      .     .      .     .      .      .  84 

Defeat .     •     •  85 

[  9  1 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Lullaby ..  :  .  86 

Sanctuary .      .  87 

Autumnal 89 

ASeaBallad.      .      .      .      ....      .     .  90 

Australia  in  London  .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  91 

In  Our  Yard 94 

A  Wood  Song 95 

The  Little  Shepherd's  Song 96 

Adventure        .      . 97 

To  Butterfly   .      .• .  98 

Agricolae 99 

Riolama      .      .      .      .      .      ii<     ...      .      .  100 

A  Ballad  of  St.  Sebastien 101 

The   Question 104 

Evening  Lines 105 

PART  III.     FROM  A  SOLDIER'S  NOTEBOOK 

A  Volunteer's  Grave 109 

Night  off  Gallipoli : 

1.  A  Delirious  Voice 110 

2.  Voice  of  a  Youthful  Turk     ....  110 

3.  An  English  Voice Ill 

4.  Voice  of  a  Breton  Fisherman     .      .      .  112 

5.  Voice  of  an  English  Poet 112 

6.  A  Canadian  Voice 113 

7.  Voice  of  a  French  Poet 114 

8.  A  Host  of  Spirits  . 116 

Swallows 117 

Poppy  Fields  .      .      .      ...      .      .      .      .  118 

On  Leave  .      .  •  .      .     .,-. 119 

To  C.  P.    .      .      .      .      .      .      ....      .      .  120 

In  France       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .  121 

[  10  ] 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

The  Soldier  Generation 122 

After  Any  Battle 124 

The  Squire 125 

For  Them  That  Died  in  Battle 126 

The  Farm  Again       .      .     i.      .      .      .    Y     .  127 

An  Epistle  from  Corinth      ;     .      .      .      .      .  129 


PART  I.     SICILIANA 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 


Regretting  that  anything  which  bears  his 
name  should  not  be  lovelier,  but  knowing 
that  with  him  there  would  be  no  regret  to 
find  it  here  inscribed,  I  dedicate  this  poem 
of  which  we  spoke  so  often  to  Major  William 
Sinkler  Manning.  It  was  given  him  to  die  as 
only  the  best  deserve,  gloriously,  in  battle, 
leading  his  troops  in  the  attack  on  Hill  378, 
November  the  sixth,  1918.  Life,  as  we  know 
it,  lost  a  lover  of  all  that  was  beautiful  and 
right,  and  I,  my  dear  friend. 


CHARACTERS 

DAVID 

GUIDO 

HUGO 

SERLE  DE  LANLARAZON 

FELICE 

GUARDS 


The  year  1220  A.  D. ;  a  castle  near  Florence.  A 
court  on  top  of  one  of  the  bastions.  To  the  right,  a 
crenelated  parapet  over  which  a  glimpse  is  had  of  an 
April  landscape — hills,  poplars,  deep  yellow  sunlight. 
Fifty  feet  below,  unseen,  runs  the  road  between  Flor 
ence  and  the  north.  At  the  back,  the  walls  of  the 
castle  and  a  wide  doorway  leading  into  the  interior. 

During  the  action,  late  afternoon  changes  to  sun 
set,  sunset  to  twilight,  and  at  the  end  it  is  almost  dark. 

As  the  scene  opens,  the  sound  of  retreating  horses' 
hoofs  is  heard.  David  is  standing  on  the  parapet 
watching.  He  is  twenty-two,  strongly  built,  blond,  with 
blue,  wide-set  eyes  and  sullen,  brooding  expression, 
simply  dressed,  with  coat  of  mail  and  sword.  He 
whistles  and  Guido's  head  appears  at  a  window. 

Guido  is  of  the  same  age,  a  trifle  taller  and  more 
slender,  very  dark,  beautiful,  full  of  high  spirits  and 
humorous  gusto.  His  dark  eyes  are  vivid  and  chang 
ing.  He  is  elegantly  dressed  as  a  courtier. 

David  throws  him  a  rope  with  a  rope  ladder  at 
tached.  Guido  fastens  it  and  descends  to  the  court. 

Guido  (as  he  descends).,    Thou  art  the  knightliest 

jailer  that  ever  stood 

Betwixt  light  heart  and  the  free  world.    Were  I 
The  Emperor,  thou  shouldst  be  seneschal  - 
Of  my  Sicilian  Joyous  Guard,  instead 
Of  jailer  and  henchman  to  the  Florentines. 

[  19  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

There  lie  the  fragrant  spaces,  the  glistening  air, 
The  very  troubadour  and  gypsy  time  o'  year; 
And  here  am  I,  hindered  and  snared,  mewed  up, 
Because,  forsooth,  I  sing  the  Emperor 's  songs, 
Set  off  his  colors,  bear  his  pleasantries 
To  some  adored  lady  of  Provence, 
To  which  your  gross  and  choleric  Florentines 
Attach  significance  and  secret  import. 
Jailer,  the  very  spring  hath  need  of  me, 
And  that  sweet  southward- wending  road 
Would  fringe  itself,  I  swear,  with  gayer  tulips 
Were  I  but  lilting  to  its  guidance  south. 
Couldn't  you  let  me  out,  David? 

David.    No,  I  could  not. 

Guido.     If  I  should  wheedle  you ;  if  I  should  be 
The  very  most  delightfulest  young  squire 
And  love  you  as  my  heart's  most  boon  companion? 
Say,  you  slept  and  dreamed  of  good  Saint  Peter, 
What  harm,  if,  when  you  woke,  your  keys  were  gone, 
By  chance  or  miracle — or  merely  me  ? 

David.    Were  you  Lord  Jesus  I'd  not  let  you  out. 

Guido.     I  do  almost  surmise,  somehow,  I'm  still 
This  prison's  darling  guest,  and  like  to  be 
A  many  a  month.    Jesu,  what  waste,  what  waste ! 

David.     0  can't  you  see?    I  must  not  let  you  go! 
The  Florentines  to  me  are  nothing, 
But  I  made  oath  to  serve  them  faithfully 
And  they  believed  me. 

Guido.    Indeed,  I  do  see,  David. 
Why,  if  you  should  accede  to  my  keen  urgence, 
I  would  not  go  ... 

At  least,  I  think  I  would  not  go,  perhaps. 
[  20  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

David.    But,  truly,  are  you  so  unhappy  here? 

Guido.     In  prison!  and  not  most  wretched!  .    .    . 

How  can  you  ask  ? 

Yet  now  I  come  to  think  of  it  .   .   .  David, 
That  is  the  loveliest  window  in  my  cell ! 
Sometimes,  when  the  sky  is  blurry  yellow, 
Just  before  dawn,  you  know, 
You  'd  think  there  were  a  thousand  birds  outside ; 
And  in  my  bed  I  lie,  all  shimmery, 
Thinking  delicious  things 
I  never  can  remember  afterwards. 
And  when,  at  last,  I  'm  up  and  washed  and  wake, 
There  is  the  tender  sunlight  in  long  sweeps, 
And  the  rose-colored  hills,  and  the  youthful  poplars, 
And  the  first  green,  so  faint 
You  fear  to  look  at  it  right  steadily 
Lest  it  should  mist  and  melt  away. 
It's  splendid,  David. 
But — now  I  know  why  I  am  miserable ! 
Think  of  the  things  I  miss  cooped  up  in  here. 
Adventures  by  the  thousand  wait  out  there ! 
When  we  rode  up  from  Sicily,  the  page  and  I, 
We  killed  a  robber,  saw  the  Pope, 
Danced  in  a  masquerade,  fasted  two  days, 
Composed  ten  roundelays  (in  the  vernacular), 
And  kissed  a  princess  on  the  cheek. 

David  (impressed}.     A  brave  existence!    But  I  am 

free 
To  take  my  share  of  it  and  never  do. 

Guido.     That's  strange — you  stay  here  willingly! 
But  why? 

David.     Adventures  do  not  wait  out  there — for  me. 
[  21  ] 


AJ 


IN  APKIL  ONCE 

Guido.     Absurd !    If  we  could  only  go  right  now — 
Think,  lad,  of  the  seas  unsailed,  the  tourneys  missed, 
The  battles  others  fight,  the  roads  not  cantered  on; 
That  very  road,  so  plain  and  real  and  white, 
Leads  out  to  courts  and  castles  of  romance. 
A  road  like  that  led  to  Emmaus  once. 
Why,  now  I  think  it  would  not  be  so  hard 
To  meet  Lord  Jesus  walking  there  alone, 
Watching  His  springtime  glisten  up, 
And  Jmmming  to  Himself !    Yonder  He  comes ! 

Dotiid.     Hush,  Guido!    Hush,  you  fool! 

Guido.     But  look!     The  sun  is  on  his  hair!     He's 

very  young. 
(David  goes  to  the  edge,  looks  down,  and  turns  back.) 

(A  voice  singing  on  the  road.) 

God's  lark  at  morning  I  would  be, 
I  'd  set  my  heart  within  a  tree 
Close  to  His  bed  and  sing  to  Him 

Right  merrily 

A  sunrise  hymn. 

David.     A  monk. 

Guido.     He's  stopped  by  Tonio's  donkey. 

David.     Means  to  steal  him,  likely. 

Voice.  Brother  Ass,  I  give  you  good  den.  As  I 
came  down  the  road  desiring  greatly  of  your  com 
pany,  I  did  bethink  me  of  the  noble  part  you 
played,  times  past,  in  Holy  Writ.  Whereon  said 
I,  to  the  next  ass  I  meet  I  will  impart  the  goodly 
thoughts  vouchsafed  me.  But,  prithee,  Brother 
Ass,  let  not  thine  ears  recede  upon  thy  nape,  nor 

[  22  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

thy  long  face  betoken  grief  of  soul!  These  are 
good  tidings  that  I  bear.  (Laughs.)  Harken! 
Christ's  Father,  which  is  God,  once  spoke  from 
out  the  belly  of  an  ass,  astounding  much  the 
prophet  that  bestrode  him,  and  honoring  your 
kinsman  and  his  children's  children,  even  to  you. 
And  later,  another  of  your  ancestors  bore  Christ 
Himself  into  Jerusalem.  Wherefore,  say  I,  you 
should  be  prouder  than  the  horse,  more  praiseful 
than  the  bird,  more — but  that 's  enough ! 
Guido.  Bravo,  Sir  Orator! 
Voice.  I  would  have  sermoned  twice  as  long  had 

I  but  known  two  asses  heard. 
Guido  (laughing).     Your  hermit's  frock  mates  not 

with  your  light  page's  tongue. 
Voice.     Nay,  Francis  says  the  Lord  loves  best  the 

happy  heart. 

Guido.     And  who  is  Francis? 
Voice.     God-a-lack ! 

Not  know  the  little  poor  man  of  Assisi? 
He  says  he  is  mere  man  like  us.    Perhaps — 
But  one  in  whom  the  breath  of  God  has  not  yet  cooled. 
Guido.     And  you  ? 

Voice.     I  am  but  one  of  many  brethren ! 
We  teach  God 's  love  and  holy  poverty, 
But  first  we  love  and  are  ourselves  most  poor. 
Come  with  us ! 

Guido.     Are  all  as  happy  as  you  look  ? 
Voice.     You  should  hear  Brother  Francis  sing! 
Bethink  you,  friend,  if  this  is  God's  dear  world, 
And  we  His  children,  if  the  years  we  have 
To  do  His  will  are  few,  so  few,  0  think 

[  23  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

How  wasted  is  all  work  not  done  for  Him. 

Ponder  these  things,   young  heart,   and  come   with 

us  ... 
And  Jesus  keep  you — and  the  woeful  ass ! 

(Sings  as  he  goes  down  the  road.) 

At  night  I'd  be  God's  troubadour. 
Beneath  His  starry  walls  I'd  pour 
Across  the  moat  such  roundelays 

He'd  love  me  sure, 

And  maybe,  praise. 

Guido  (watching  him  disappear).     I  think  I'd  al 
most  like  to  go  with  him. 

David.     That's  not  Emmaus  road.    He'll  not  meet 
God. 

Guido.     Isn't  it  strange  how  God  is  easy  to 
Forget  ?    And  to  remember  too !    Whole  days 
I  go  so  brimful  of  the  bliss  of  things 
I  never  think  of  Him.    And  then  He  comes, 
Quite  naturally,  and  not  at  all  displeased — 
Perhaps  a  summer  night  scattered  with  stars, 
Or  far  off  in  the  dusk  a  sweet  song  heard, 
Or  when  you  're  lonely  and  you  want  someone 
To  kiss  you,  to  hold  you  close,  and  let  you  cry ; 
Or  sometimes  when  the  splendors  seem  to  rain 
And  sunset  skies  quiver  and  rock  with  gold, 
And  voices  call  you  and  you  hear  your  own 
Answering  back,  swearing  to  go  crusading, 
Or  to  a  hermit 's  cell,  or  on  some  quest. 
It's  strange  .  .  .  But  He  doesn't  worry  me  a  bit ! 

David.     I  hope  you  always  find  Him  so,  Guido. 
But  you've  not  sworn  to  go  on  the  crusades? 

[  24  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Ouido.     Not  truly  sworn,  just  to  myself. 
Zounds!  what  a  knightly  quest!  Worth  all  the  blood 
Spilled,  and  the  failures!  Let's  go  together,  David. 

David.     Not  worth,  I  swear,  the  life  of  one  good 

man, 
Although  it  won  the  Sepulchre. 

»     Guido.    By  all  the  saints!     I  don't  believe  you 
think  that ! 

(David  is  silent.) 

'Tis  natural  we  should  revere  His  tomb — 
Unless  you  have  no  faith  that  He  is  God  ? 
David,  do  you,  perchance,  know  other  gods 
Besides  the  old  ones  of  the  Trinity  ? 

David.    No.    Do  you? 

Guido.     Lots  of  'em !    Only  listen ! 
Pallas,  Persephone,  Olympian  Zeus, 
Hermes,  Artemis,  Ganymede, — 

David.     And  what  became  of  them  ?    Crucified  too  ? 

Guido.     Oh,  no;  somehow  they  were  forgotten. 

David.    You  jest. 
I  thought  you  'd  found,  perhaps,  another  hope. 

Guido.     I'll  tell  you  just  the  way  I  learned  of  them. 
You  see,  the  Emperor  wished  his  pages  taught 
All  wisdom  of  all  countries  and  all  times 
So  they  might  adepts  in  delightfulness 
Become,  to  grace  the  earthly  paradise 
He'd  made  his  court.    I  was  his  favorite  page. 
Oh,  it  was  fairy  stuff,  that  life  of  ours ! 
We  'd  sit  or  lie  or  sprawl  about  the  fountain 
In  Monreale  's  high-built  orange-court, 
A  score  of  laughing  pages,  olive-hued, 
And  gold-haired  Enzio,  the  Emperor's  son. 

[  25  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

'Twould  be  sun-splashed  up  there,  not  hot  nor  cool, 
But  always  thick  with  perfume  from  the  trees, 
And  dim  with  water  sounds  and  litanies 
That  friars  pacing  in  the  cloisters  told. 
And,  morning  long,  an  Arab  sage  would  read 
The  precious  parchments  from  Byzantium. 
'  You  Ve  seen,  David,  some  arch  half  hid  in  flowers 
That  winds  and  butterflies  and  birds  blow  through — 
Well,  such  an  arch  I've  always  been  till  now, 
With  all  the  fragrance,  rapture,  melody 
Of  all  the  world  just  blowing  through,  lightly. 
(*From  those  old  parchments  we  young  pages  learned 
Of  men  long  dead  who  seemed  to  us  ourselves, 
Only  more  wise  and  radiant  and  fair, 
Who  lived  in  Greece  once,  loved  with  their  whole 

strength 

The  earth  and  sun,  and  offered  up  their  prayers 
To  many  cool-eyed  gods  with  rippling  names. 
But  placid  gods  they  were  that  never  worked ! 
~*  David.     Forgotten  gods  in  books  to  me  are  nothing. 
Guido.     For  everyday  they're  not  as  good  as  Christ. 
They  are  just  beautiful ;  you  pray  to  them, 
They  hardly  hear ;  you'd  never  make  them  weep. 
Of  course  you  go  to  Christ  when  you  are  hurt, 
Or  when  you  feel — like  a  young  tree  in  bloom ! 
David.     Do  you  feel  that  way  all  the  time  t 
Guido   (laughing).  Mostly! 

(Goes  up  on  a  parapet.     The  sunset  is  cloudless — 
transparencies  of  intense  color.) 

God,  God,  how  beautiful  Your  world  is!     Sometimes 
It  seems  to  me  I  should  do  something  noble, 
[  26  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Some  deed  You  'd  love,  to  truly  show  my  thanks  .  .  . 

David,  this  riding  up  and  down  the  world 

In  scarlet  hose  is  not  enough,  think  you? 

Others  leave  all  they  love  to  fight  for  Christ, 

Or  take  the  sea  to  find  new  lands  for  Him, 

Or  quit  the  dear  society  of  men 

To  seek  for  angels  in  the  wilderness. 

They  say  that  in  the  north,  whole  villages 

Are  sometimes  struck  with  the  wild  thought  of  God, 

And  careless  of  their  personal,  sharp  needs, 

Give  up  their  all  to  build  Him  palaces 

Of  blue  and  emerald  glass  and  marble  lace. 

I'd  hate  another  man  to  have 

A  goodlier  soul  than  I !  ... 

But  how  diversely  we  are  lovable !      // 

We  must  be  quite  a  pleasure  to  our  Lord. 

A  voice  screaming.     Son  of  David,   have  mercy 
on  me! 

Guido  (terribly  startled).    What  was  that  cry! 

David.     The  madman's  scream. 
They  burned  out  both  his  eyes  for  some  old  crime 
And  he  went  mad.    His  cell  is  under  us. 
Sometimes  he  screams  like  that. 

Guido  (horrified).    Then  there  are  other  prisoners 
in  this  place  ? 

David.     From  that  bright  room  of  yours  you  never 

see 

The  ghastly  crew  that  I  am  captain  of. 
But  there  are  those  beneath  your  very  feet 
In  dungeon  after  dungeon,  who  will  die 
And  never  see  the  sun.    This  is  a  hive 
Of  misery.    You  only  heard  one  buzz. 
[  27  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Guido.     They  never  come  up  here  ? 

David.     Only  for  you  I  break  the  prison 's  rules. 

Guido.     Who  are  they,  down — down  there? 

David.     Thieves,  politicians,  murderers,  and  such. 
Mostly  they  die.    Two  only  have  been  here 
For  many  years. 

Guido.  What  crimes  did  they  commit? 

David.     One's  a  pirate,  that  roars  and  sings  and 

curses ; 
Hugo  by  name.    He  begs  to  tell  me  his  adventures. 

Guido.     I  'd  listen  till  he  'd  told  me  the  last  one ! 
I'd  like  to  see  that  pirate  .  .  .  and  the  other? 

David.     A  heretic. 

Guido  (laughing).     So's  the  Emperor! 

David.     His  is  the  deepest  dungeon  of  them  all, 
No  sun,  no  breath  of  air,  just  slime  and  stench. 
Ten  years  ago  when  first  they  flung  him  there 
His  tongue  was  brash  and  peppery,  they  say, 
His  body  broad  and  big,  a  fighting  man's. 
But  he  has  rotted  in  that  stinking  hole. 
I  shade  my  lantern  when  I  bring  his  food. 

Guido.     Horrible !     Horrible !     Does  he  cry  out  ? 

David.     No.  .  .  .  Though  he  is  heretic,  he  has 
A  God  whose  name  he  praises  and  whose  strength 
Implores.    To  me  he  never  makes  complaint ; 
But  once  he  asked, 
"Has  Albi's  faith  yet  spread  to  Italy?" 

Guido.     Albi !    The  home  of  heretics ! 

David.    And  once,  "Is  Simon  dead?" 

Guido.    David,  let's  give  a  holiday  to  him 
And  to  my  pirate, 
And  bring  them  here  to  talk  to  us. 
[  28  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

David.     You  could  not  stand  the  sight  of  him; 

his  flesh 

Is  crumbled  off,  or  fetid,  white  and  stale. 
They  gave  him  for  his  faith  the  lepers '  cell. 
Guido.     God!     God!    Leave  him  down  there! 
David.     Yet  I  could  hide  him  in  a  dead  monk 's  cowl, 
And,  while  the  guards  are  absent,  let  them  both 
Come  here  to  breathe  the  light  and  air  once  more. 
You  could  guard  one  while  I  'd  go  fetch  the  other. 
Guido.     If  both  must  come,  bring  up  the  pirate 

first, 

So  I  may  be  alone  with  him — not  with  that  other! 
David.    But  could  you  guard  the  pirate?     He's 

strong  and 

Guido  (indignant}.     By  God!    Could  If    Because 

I  dress  in  silk, 

And  sing  a  snatch,  mayhap,  and  speak  of  birds 
And  blossoms  and  such  amorous,  frail  things, 
Thou  thinkest  me  weakling! 
With  one  good  broadsword  and  a  mind  to  it, 
I  'd  guard  secure  a  host  of  pirates !  .    .    .    'Swounds ! 
(Sees  a  sword  lying  on  the  bench.) 
Lend  me  that  sword !  .   .   .  On  guard !  .   .   .  Now,  all 
your  skill ! 


(They  fence.  A  sudden  twist,  and  Guido  catches 
David's  sword  with  his,  whirling  it  into  the  air. 
Guido  in  high  spirits  runs  up  to  the  battlement.) 

Guido.     That  old  Sicilian  trick ! 
Now  who  is  master  here  ?    Free,  free,  0  world ! 
Now  could  I  cut  the  gold-haired  jailer's  head  off 
And  steal  his  keys  and  rush  out  to  the  road, 
[  29  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

And  lark  it  down  to  Sicily  again. 
David  (repressing   his   admiration).     I'd  love   to 

be  your  battle  brother  once, 

And,  standing  by  your  side,  strike  down  a  hundred ! 
Guido.     David,  you  almost  angered  me.    Bring  up 
the  prisoners ! 

(Exit  David.     Guido  sits  with  his  feet  hanging  over 
the  parapet  and  sings.) 

0,  shall  I  sail  the  rough,  bright  sea, 

And  on  some  glittering  morn 
Blow  with  the  wind  that  blows  so  free, 
Up  to  a  strange  and  a  fair  countree, 

And  wind  on  my  silver  horn? 

Or  shall  I  loosen  my  long,  grey  lance, 

Leap  my  stallion  astride, 
And  down  the  mottled  wood-paths  prance 
To  capture  the  city  of  romance 

That  the  golden  cloud-banks  hide? 

Sing  heigh,  sing  ho !    The  bliss  of  being, 

The  glory  of  days  that  rush, 
So  much  to  be  doing,  hearing,  seeing, 
With  spring  foaming  up,  and  winter  a-fleeing, 

And  the  rose  of  youth  in  blush ! 

(Enter  David  with  Hugo,  enormous,  red-bearded,  this 
side  of  middle  age.    David  goes  out.) 

Guido.     Men  say  you  have  been  in  your  day 
The  fearfulest  rover  of  the  seas. 
Hugo.     They  said  not  half.  My  soul  can  count 
[  30  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

More    dreadful    deeds    than    the    Old    Man    of    the 

Mountain, 
And  more  are  yet  to  do. 

Guido.  You've  sailed,  perhaps,  the  western  sea? 
Hugo.  Western  and  eastern,  Pontic  and  Caspian ! 
Guido.  And  seen  the  marvels  of  the  world's  grey 

edge? 

Hugo.     All  of  them.    Once  for  twenty  days  I  sailed 
Beyond  the  gateways  of  the  world  into  the  west. 
The  winds  had  voices  like  the  damned, 

There  was  no  sun ;  the  sea  was  like 

Guido.     The  flameless,  grey,  upheaving  boundaries 

of  hell 

Where  drift  those  truckling  spirits  who  in  life 
Shunned  the  affray. 

Hugo.     A-hem!     Have  you  been  there? 
Guido.     Well,  as  it  were   ...    Go  on.     As  you 

roved  up 

The  heliotrope,  soft  sea  of  Greece 
Did  you,  perchance,  catch  glimpses  of 
The  women  of  the  sea  ? 
Hugo.     A  many  a  one. 
Guido.     How  looked  they  ? 
Hugo.     Sleek  and  bosomed  high. 
Guido.    What  color  were  their  eyes? 
Hugo.     I  noted  not  their  eyes. 
Guido.     Blind  fool !     But  never  mind,  I  know. 
(David  enters  with  the  heretic,  who  wears  the  white 
habit  of  a  monk,  the  cowl  over  his  head  hiding  his 
face.    He  can  hardly  walk;  David  supports  him. 
He  pauses,  dazed  ~by  the  late  sunlight,  then  sits 
on  the  bench  at  ~back  center,  silently.} 
[  31  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

Guido  (nervously  covering  the   embarrassment  of 
their  entrance).     David,  this  man  hath,  seen  the 
women  of  the  sea, 
And  found  them  fair. 

Hugo.  But  not  as  fair  by  half 

As  those  of  earth.    Jesu,  no  sight  of  one 
For  these  damned  years  I  've  rotted  here ; 
And  there's  a  many  a  town  on  many  a  shore 
Where  lasses  weep  and  beat  their  breasts  for  me. 

Guido.     Hast  thou  adventured  in  the  further  south 
Where  spicier  seas 

Break  on  the  carven  shores  of  lovelier  lands, 
Where  women,  sultry-hued  as  summer's  myrtle, 
With  half -closed,  tawny  eyes  that  never  close, 
Await  far  sails  of  vaster  glittering 
That  bear  superbly  to  their  attared  arms 
More  bright-haired,  iron-chested  lovers 
Out  of  the  north? 

Hugo.  To  the  neighboring  isles, 

And  there  I'll  harbor  on  my  next  adventure. 

Guido.     I  love  thee,  Hugo. 
Thou  art  the  most  heroicalest  liar 
Leewards  of  greedy  hell. 

Hugo.     A  man  must  be  to  keep  apace  with  you. 
But  you,  I  swear,  are  not  a  common  jailer. 
What  is  your  land  and  lineage? 

Guido.     My  home,  Palermo;  my  estate,  the  Em 
peror's  love. 

Hugo.     A    courtly    knight !      A    silken    squire    of 

dames ! 
I  wager  you  are  served  with  jades  a-plenty. 

David.     Do  you  know  love,  real  love,  Guido? 
[  32  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

Guido.     The   gods  have  not  vouchsafed  me  that 

transmuting  test, 
But  I  have  longed  for  Circe  and, 
Remembering  her  sties,  still  longed. 

Hugo.     Who  may  that  lady  be? 

Guido.     A  witch  of  qualities. 

Hugo.     As? 

Guido.     Shadow  robes  that  cling,  and  shadow  eyes, 
Warm,  tulip-tinted  mouth,  all  else  Carrara  whiteness. 
The  prodigal  son  was  hireling  to  her,  and  forgot 
Even  his  father,  eating  of  her  husks. 

David.     Is  she  the  lady,  Guido,  has  a  house 
In  Florence,  where  the  other  jailers  now 
Drink  of  her  wine  and — eat  her  husks? 

Guido.     The  same,  the  same !    I'm  glad  you're  here, 

David. 

It 's  easy  to  forget  they  're  husks  in  April ; 
Then  lechery  is  iridescent- winged, 
Mere  throbbing  up  of  leafy  sun-drawn  sap ; 
Mere  clinging  of  frail  lips;  mere  mockery 
Of  light-intoxicated  eyes, 
That  thrill  together  under  lowered  lids — 
Half  irresistible  and  wholly  sweet. 
And  yet — I'm  glad  we're  here,  David. 

Hugo.     If  I  were  free  this  afternoon, 
I  know  a  harlot's  house  in  Florence 

Guido.     Ah,  there  it  is !    Always  the  same ! 
There 's  nothing  this  side  love  but  vileness ; 
And  without  either  there's  such  rapture  i'  the  world. 
Let's  keep  it  so,  0  jailer  of  my  heart. 
Forget  the  sirens  for  awhile,  thou  bearded  beast, 
And  tell  us  brackish  tales  of  the  wild  sea. 

[   33   ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Hugo.     I  have  no  notion  who  the  sirens  be, 
Nor  Circe,  nor  what  means 
That  womanish,  springtime  talk  of  yours. 
I  doubt  me  if  ye  know  a  broadsword  from  a  dirk. 
You  could  not  understand  a  lively  man's  adventures. 

Guido.     David,  I  think  we  hold  in  vile  captivity 
The  fieriest  brigand  that  ever  slew — with  words, 
The  doughtiest  sailor  that  ever  sailed — by  breath. 
Of  course,  he  may  have  pulled  a  harbor  yawl, 
Or  held  for  ransom  valiantly  a  capture  of  sardines. 
Nay,  more,  I  grant,  with  faithful  henchmen  by, 
He  may  have  subjugated,  cheese  and  all, 
An  irate  granny-dame,  sail  set  for  market. 

Hugo.     Body  of  Christ ! 
Shall  flesh  and  blood  endure  this  popinjay, 

This  thing  of  silk;  this Before  you  came, 

A  red  worm  thing  into  the  bellowing  world, 
I'd  waded  knee-deep  in  fresh  human  blood, 
Slain  Greeks  a  hundred,  sacked  the  vizier's  harem, 
Gathered  a  hamper  full  of  sacred  bones, 
And,  drunk  on  sacramental  wine,  sailed  back 
To  Venice  with  two  span  of  iron  horses. 

Guido   (delighted).     You  on  the  gorgeous  Byzan 
tine  crusade? 

Did  you  not  catch  the  tale  from  other  lips 
"When  you  were  linkboy  on  the  Grand  Canal  ? 

Hugo.     These  very  hands,  thou  saucy  innocent, 
Have  purpled  with  imperial  bastards'  blood; 
These  eyes  saw  Dandolo's  fleet  assault  the  walls, 
The  Greeks '  vermilion  tent  and  molten  oil, 
The  mangonels  and  catapult  and  bridge. 
When  Andre  of  Urboise  dashed  through  the  breach 

[   34  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

I  followed,  and  'twas  I  first  lit  the  torch 

That  fired  a  thousand  houses,  where  old  men 

And  slattern  women  howled  and  cursed  and  burned! 

That  was  a  real  crusade !    Gold,  wine 

And  women  whose  consent  the  sword  could  always  win. 

These  are  dull  times !    Hey,  silent  monk ! 

Preach  Christ  and  war  against  the  infidel ! 

That's  the  brave  life!    With  heathen  gold 

And  heathen  concubines,  who  would  not  fight 

For  Christ? 

David.    Now  would  you  be  crusader,  Guido? 

Guide.     The  beast! 

Hugo  (in  high  fettle).     Then  I've  another  crusade 

tale  for  you. 

Sweet  Christ!  'Twas  a  divine  burlesque! 
Of  all  that  crossed  the  sea  not  one  returned 
Save  me,  their  leader. 

Guido.  Your  lies  grow  wearisome. 

David   (with   premonition    and    repression).     Say 
on,  say  on ! 

Hugo.     It  was  in  France,  near  such  a  day  as  this; 
We  idled  in  the  southern  harbor  there, 
Our  seven  empty  hulls  against  the  quays. 
I  do  remember  well,  'twas  afternoon. 
On  deck  we  slept  beneath  the  sails  or  diced 
And  wished  the  night  would  come.     Then  suddenly, 
From  the  hill  crest  where  the  wide  street  came  down, 
We  heard  a  shout,  and,  looking  up,  beheld — 
You  '11  know  I  'm  lying  now — it  looked  a  dream — 
A  thousand  children 

(David  leaps  up  and  stands  white  and  taut.) 
[  35  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

with  flowers  on  their  heads 

And  crosses  in  their  hands  and  wreaths  and  banners ; 
And  when  they  saw  us  or  the  sea  or  something, 
They  fell  upon  their  knees  with  prayers  and  cries, 
Kissed  one  another,  wept,  went  mad  with  joy. 
While  we,  chap-fallen,  watched  their  antics,  up 
They  sprang,  broke  into  hymns  to  Jesus  and 
Came  down  the  sloping  street  right  to  the  sea. 

Guido.  But  why? 

Hugo.    Baccho!    It  was  the  Crusade  of  the  Chil 
dren, 

And  they  were  marching  with  their  songs  and  flowers 
To  take  Christ's  Sepulchre! 

Guido.  What's  in  Jerusalem? 

Hugo.    Yea,  verily. 

Guido.  But  that  was  France ! 

Hugo.     They  came  to  us  and  said,  "We're  almost 

there ; 

Dear  friends,  we  know,  for  we  have  marched  so  long; 
And  Christ  has  sent  you  here  with  seven  ships 
To  ferry  us  across  the  sea."    Whereon, 
They  knelt  to  us  and  called  us,  ' '  Brothers  in  Christ, ' ' 
"Seamen  of  God,"  "Our  Lady's  mariners." 
It  had  astounded  you. 

Guido.  But  so  you  were ! 

You  took  them  to  the  Holy  Tomb  of  Christ? 

Hugo.     Thou  fool!     That  night  we  spent  apart  in 

council. 

Next  day,  our  scheme  complete,  we  went  to  them 
And  swore  to  bear  them  to  the  Sepulchre. 

Guido.     I  knew  you  would,  our  Lady's  mariner! 

Hugo.     We  herded  them  aboard  our  seven  ships 
[  36  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

And  sailed  for  Alexandria — a  golden  freight ! 

Guido.     Why  there,  and  not  unto  Jerusalem  ? 

Hugo.     Children  are  precious  to  the  infidel! 
We  sold  the  last  one  to  the  Turk;  not  one  returned! 
And  there  they  do  remain  to  this  good  hour, 
Their  slaves  and  concubines ! 

(David,  with  a  terrible  cry,  flings  himself  on  Hugo, 
hurls  him  to  the  floor,  strangles  him.  Guido  with 
difficulty  pulls  him  off.) 

Guido.     Which  is  his  cell? 
David.     To  the  right,  the  last. 

(David  lies  sobbing  on  the  floor,  while  Guido  takes 
Hugo  out  and  returns.) 

Guido.     There  is  some  wickedness  I  had  not  guessed. 

David  (beside  himself).     I  was  one!     I  was  one! 

Guido.     What  do  you  mean? 

David.     I  was  a  child-crusader !  The  dog !  The  dog ! 
Then  they,  too,  failed.    No  man  had  heard  their  fate. 
I  thought  they  sailed  and  reached  the  Sepulchre ! 
There  is  no  justice  and  no  right, 
No  pity  and  no  kindness  in  the  world ! 
Only  the  vile  things  prosper  and  live  on. 
Where  is  your  God  ? 

Guido.     I  know  not.     I  know  nothing  .    .    .   But 

you — 
Were  you  a  child-crusader  there  in  France  ? 

David.     Oh,  no.     Listen,  Guido!     Here's  my  life! 

(David  pauses  to  control  himself,  then  proceeds  with 
suppressed  passion.) 

I  was  a  shepherd  boy  beyond  the  Rhine. 
[  37  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

A  hilltop  was  my  home.    All  summer  there 
I  'd  watch  my  flocks  about  me  pasturing. 
I  could  throw  a  stone  and  hit  the  road  below  me ; 
It  was  the  road  that  led  out  to  the  world. 
All  day  I  'd  lie  and  watch  from  the  deep  grass 
The  marvelous  people  passing — troubadours 
With  viol  da  gambas  on  their  backs  and  singing ; 
Fat  priests  and  friars,  sometimes  a  cardinal, 
And  green  and  scarlet  pages,  little  like  me, — 
I'd  halloa  down  to  them — and  then  the  knights, 
Always  the  noble  knights  with  flashing  mail 
And  retinues  of  stalwart  men-at-arms. 
The  proudest-seeming  always  journeyed  south, 
Seeking  Christ's  Sepulchre,  they  said.    They  said 
The  infidels  had  made  it  theirs  somehow, 
Ruined  and  fouled  and  desecrated  it ; 
And  if  God's  knights  could  capture  it  again, 
The  sins  o'  the  world  would  pass,  and  every  sorrow, 
And  likely  Christ  would  come  again  unto  His  own. 
And  somehow  there  were  wings  through  all  the  air 
In  those  first  days.    In  the  deep  silence  when 
The  sun  stood  still  at  noon  and  the  flocks  slept, 
I  'd  hear,  I  thought,  the  angels  all  about  me ; 
They  walked  among  my  sheep  upon  my  hill. 
And  something  always  was  about  to  break 
Between  another  world  and  me. 
I  waited  and  was  sure,  some  day,  quite  soon, 
A  glory  would  come  true  and  I  would  kneel 
I '  the  grass  and  see  the  Lord  before  me,  close, 
Yes,  close  enough  to  touch  and  talk  to.    Then  one  day 
I  found  what  I'd  been  wishing  for  so  long. 
Down  on  the  road,  far  off,  behind  the  hill, 
[  38  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

I  heard  a  hundred  voices  singing,  not 

Gleemen  or  pages,  but  like  seraphim. 

I  knelt  and  waited,  and  the  sheep  were  still. 

Louder  the  singing  grew  and  louder,  then 

Around  the  hillside  into  the  sun  they  burst, 

A  host  of  children,  a  heavenly  host, 

With  crosses  in  their  hands  and  on  their  breasts. 

They  called  to  me  and  I  came  down  and  left  my  flock 

And  went  with  them,  a  soldier  of  the  Christ.  .   .   . 

Guido,  Guido,  Guido,  it  was  not  fair! 

We  were  so  sure  of  God,  we  meant  so  well ! 

He  let  us  starve  and  rot  among  the  fields, 

He  lost  us  in  the  snow  and  ice  of  mountains, 

We  died,  and  died,  and  died,  but  still  pushed  on, 

For  we  were  only  children  and  believed. 

Guido.     And  those  that  did  not  die  ? 

David.  Half-frozen,  starved, 

We  staggered  from  the  dreadful  mountain  pass 
And  saw  beneath  us  in  the  sunlight  Italy. 
We  thought  it  was  the  Promised  Land.    In  tears, 
With  arms  around  the  weaker  ones,  we  hurried 
Down  the  great  mountain  side  to  meet  the  Christ. 

Guido.     If  only  this  could  be  a  lie  or  dream ! 

David.     We  knew  the  end  was  surely  near.     We 

wove 

Garlands  and  wreaths  to  lay  upon  His  Tomb. 
Our  leader  was  a  lad  named  Nicholas — 
When  souls  are  sacreder  than  his  they  will 
Not  take  the  flesh !  .  .  .  One  night  he  called  us  round 
And  climbed  upon  a  gateway  in  our  midst 
And  spoke  to  us. 

[  39  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

His  face  shone  in  the  dark. 
He  said,  a  final  test  the  Lord  had  laid — 
Across  our  path  He'd  stretched  the  mighty  sea. 
The  children,  terrified,  broke  into  sobs ; 
But  Nicholas  called,  not  loudly,  but  the  way  he  had, 
' '  In  olden  times  a  children 's  army  marched 
Across  the  sea  dry-shod ;  and  they,  indeed, 
Were  children  but  of  one  named  Israel, 
While  we  are  Christ's! 
The  sea  will  hedge  itself  on  either  side 
And  leave  a  path  for  us  to  walk  between. ' ' 
So  we  believed  and  sang  beneath  the  stars. 
The  next  day,  verily,  we  saw  the  sea 
And  Genoa,  beneath  whose  walls  we  camped. 
Nicholas  named  the  following  dawn  as  hour 
When  we  should  march  dry-shod  across  the  sea. 
How  happy  we  who  had  been  faithful  to  the  end ! 
Our  labors  all  were  done.    We  could  not  sleep. 
Long  before  dawn  I  went  to  Nicholas 
And  knelt  and  begged  that  I  might  be 
Among  the  first  of  them  that  walked  into  the  sea. 
He  flung  his  arms  around  me  and  cried  out, 
11  David,  we  two  shall  lead  the  lambs  of  God." 
After  a  long,  long  time  the  dawn  began : 
The  army  knelt  and  prayed  together  the  last  time, 
And  rose,  and  with  their  flowers  and  their  roods 
Marched  solemnly  unto  the  water's  edge; 
And  first  of  all  went  Nicholas  and  I. 
The  water  touched  my  shoes  and  did  not  part ; 
But  yet  I  knew  it  would  and  kept  right  on. 
Deeper  and  deeper — my  knees — my  waist — the  cold 
Stole  to  my  heart — the  prayers  died  out  within  me. 
[  40  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

But  I  kept  on.    And  I  was  blind  before 

The  water  reached  my  eyes  and  smothered  me. 

Guido.     And  then? 

David.     I  lay  on  the  beach  in  the  sun, 
People  laughing  and  shouting  around  .  .  . 

Guido.     That  was  the  end  ? 

David.     The  end.    The  lambs  were  scattered. 
In  time  they  hid  themselves  about  the  world. 

Guido.    And  you  ? 

David.    A  little  band  that  still  could  not  believe 
God  would  so  fool  and  trap  them,  went  to  Rome 
To  tell  Christ's  shepherd  there,  the  Pope. 
I  went  along,  not  knowing  where  to  go. 

Guido.     The  Holy  Father  said? 

David.     That  we  were  disobedient,  pert  children, 
That  we  should  go  with  speed  back  to  our  homes, 
That  we  might  win  forgiveness  if,  when  grown, 
We  took  the  sword  to  win  Christ's  Sepulchre. 
So  I  knew  that  the  world  was  bad,  and  one 
Must  live  in  it  awhile  like  any  beast. 
I  stole  away,  came  here,  and — here  I  am. 
That  is  my  life! 

You  say  the  world  is  beautiful,  the  spring 
Is  God's,  that  road  is  lately  trod  by  Christ — 
Lies !  lies !    God  is  not  here !    I  don 't  believe ! 

(It  has  grown  dusk.  The  old  man  suddenly  rises  and 
strides  forward  to  David.  He  seems  tall  and 
fearful;  his  voice  is  terrible.} 

Serle  de  Lanlarazon.     He  is!   Thou  dost  believe! 

Naught  else  so  plain ! 
Dost  think  this  marvelous,  shining  soul  of  thine, 

[  41    ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

That  will  not  shatter  into  common  vileness, 
Though  tested  with  the  blows  of  agony, 
Can  be  a  cup  for  aught  but  heavenly  wine  ? 
Lo,  thou  dost  brim  with  God! 

Guido.     Who  art  thou,   strange   and  terrible   old 
man? 

Serle.      Serle  de  Lanlarazon,  the  heretic! 
I,  too,  was  once  a  soldier  of  the  Lord, 

0  shepherd  boy,  and  I,  too,  met  defeat. 
They  that  were  noblest  of  the  sons  of  men 

1  have  seen  butchered,  and  the  land  of  all 
Lands  peacefulest  ravished  and  soaked  in  blood ! 
Mine  eyes  beheld  five  hundred  women  burned 
At  Carcassonne — they  walked  into  the  flames 
As  into  lovers '  arms !    When  Beziers  fell, 

They  that  were  burned,  women  and  boys  and  babes, 

Escaped  such  tortures  and  abominations 

As  made  the  flames  seem  tenderer  than  sleep. 

Yet,  blinded  by  injustice  too  clear  seen, 

Shall  I  denial  make  of  Him  that  steels 

This  vile  and  coward  soul  of  ours 

To  unendurable  and  gainless  agonies? 

Yea,  verily,  His  acts,  seen  singly,  take 

The  cast  of  madness,  and  but  momently 

We  see  what  is  as  wisdom.    Yet  behold, 

Nothing  can  goad  the  bleeding  soul  of  man 

lUnto  sublimity  that  tops  the  stars, 

jLike  undeserved  wrong  and  mad  injustice  ! 

These  women  that  died  horribly  for  faith, 

Your  children  urged  to  folly  by  a  dream, 

The  broken  spirits  of  the  world  that  are 

Its  torches — these  are  the  testament  of  fire 

[  42  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Struck  from  the  flint !    What  hand  but  His 
Could  draw  from  this  poor  stuff  of  ours — Light ! 
Who  sees  the  flame  hath  seen  divinity !     fl 

Guido.     What  was  the  evil  that  your  people  wrought 
There  in  Provence  to  earn  such  punishment? 

Serle.     They  saw  the  truth  and  dared  to  speak  it 

loud! 

Against  them  stood  the  Church  of  Rome,  once  pure, 
But  now  become  as  foul  as  leprosy ! 

(David  and  Guido  are  horrified.) 
We  fearlessly  cried  out,  "Unclean,  unclean! 
Beseech  the  healing  hands  of  Christ,  proud  Rome." 

Guido  (aside  to  David).     He  does  not  know! 

Serle.    But  she  that  called  herself  the  church  of 

Christ, 
Hearing  the  truth,  slew  them  that  dared  to  speak. 

Guido.    What  need  was  there  to  speak?    In  Sicily, 
We  see  her  faults,  as  you,  but  let  them  be. 

Serle.     Then  ye  are  cowards ! 
My  people  have  a  more  heroic  heart. 
Wilt  call  it  life  to  see  the  truth  struck  down 
And  not  unsheath  thy  sword  in  her  defense  ? 
Wilt  call  it  life  to  hear  the  voice  of  God 
But  cravenly  to  hide  and  mute  the  tidings  ? 
Life,  life — 

Is't  not  the  test  of  all  we  know  as  good 
Embattled  'gainst  the  all  we  know  as  evil, 
The  Eternal  Right  against  the  Eternal  Wrong? 
0  child,  the  perfume  and  the  bloom  of  life, 
Youth 's  song  of  yearning  underneath  the  moon,  j 
These  fade.    But  there's  a  splendor  never  fades; 
And  he  enlisting  as  God 's  knight-at-arms 
[  43  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Wages  a  fight  that  has  not  any  end, 
Whose  prize  more  sacred  is  than  Palestine, 
Whose  gain's  no  tomb,  but  an  eternal  life. 

David.     Then  thou'dst  not  counsel  us  to  cross  the 

sea 
And  go  crusading  to  Jerusalem? 

Serle.     His  fight  is  not  across  the  seas,  but  here! 

Guido.     Then   were    the   battles   that    my    heroes 

fought — 
Richard  and  Godfrey  and  the  rest — all  wrong? 

Serle.     Nay,  nay.    Somehow,  it  is  God's  deep  desire 
That  stirs  the  hearts  of  men  to  that  adventure. 
But  'tis  a  fool's  adventure  !    To  you,  to  me, 
How  could  His  Tomb  more  potent  be  to  save 
Than  any  field  of  earth  where  flowers  grow? 
The  noble  striving's  everything,  and  Christ 
In  kindness  let  them  fail !  .  .  . 
Yet,  fairer  far  the  quest  for  that  poor  Tomb 
Than  all  the  wars  that  men  have  waged  before 
For  hate  or  gain  or  merely  idleness.  .  .  . 
The  world  grows  better.  .  .  .  Thou  sayest  Simon 's 
dead? 

David.     Ay. 

Serle.     And  Innocent  that  preached  the  war? 

David.    Dead,  too. 

Serle.      And    there    is    peace    'twixt   heretic    and 
Church? 

David.     The  wars  have  ceased. 

Guido.     And  there's  for  emperor 
A  friend  of  truth,  no  matter  how  bedight — 
A  host  to  all  the  wisdom  of  the  world 
Though  hailing  from  Provence  or  India. 

[  44  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Arab  and  Jew,  Mohammedan  and  Greek, 
Find  courtesy  and  hearing  in  Palermo. 

Serle.    Have  I  not  heard  the  coming  of  the  Lord? 
The  darkness  giveth  forth  much  inner  light 
And  loneliness  lets  in  diviner  guests. 
The  years  of  my  captivity  have  brought 
Much  wisdom  I  had  missed.    Even,  I  trace 
Nobility  in  them  that  tortured  us! 
Simon  and  Innocent  worked  for  a  God 
That  is  my  God,  although  their  work  was  mad 
And  evil  only.    We  who  swore  that  Evil  was 
Itself  eternal  and  not  born  of  Good, 
Who  died  for  that  belief,  we  were  not  wholly  wise. 
It  is  a  truth,  but  one  forgetting  which 
Need  vary  not  one  whit  the  lives  of  men. 
All  know  that  good  and  evil  are  at  war, 
And  in  that  war  all  lordly  souls  enlist, 
Roman  or  heretic  or  infidel. 
What  matter  the  first  cause  ?    For  battle-cry 
To  all  the  gallantry  beneath  the  stars, 
Two  words  suffice :  ' '  He  is ! "  .  .  . 
I  long  for  but  one  thing  before  I  die — 
Not  to  incite  my  people  'gainst  the  Pope, 
Nor  bear  the  southern  standard  in  the  strife, 
But  to  assure  them  of  the  living  God.  .  .   . 
Across  the  edges  of  the  world  there  blows  a  wind 
Mysterious  with  perfume  of  a  spring ; 
A  spring  that  is  not  of  the  kindling  earth, 
That's  more  than  scent  of  bloom  or  gleam  of  bud; 
The  spring  of  God  in  flower ! 

Down  there  where  neither  sun  nor  air  came  through, 
I  felt  it  blow  across  my  dungeon  walls — 
[  45  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

The  wind  before  the  footsteps  of  the  Lord ! 
It  bloweth  now  across  the  world; 
It  strangely  stirs  the  hearts  of  men ;  wars  cease ; 
Rare  deeds  familiar  grow ;  fastings  and  prayers, 
Forgiveness,  poverty;  temples  are  built 
On  visioned  impulses,  and  children  march 
On  journeys  with  no  end. 
Par  off,  far  off  He  comes, 
And  we  are  swept  upon  our  knees 
As  meadow  grasses  kneeling  to  the  wind. 
Guide.     Thou  man  of  God ! 

(He  falls  impetuously  on  his  "knees  before  Serle,  catch 
ing  hold  of  his  hands.  So  close,  he  sees  his  hideous, 
disfigured  face  and  falls  back  with  an  involun 
tary  cry  of  loathing.  It  is  twilight.) 

Serle  (gazing  intently  at  his  hands).     Are  these  my 
hands?    Rotted  and  numb! 

(He  slowly  realizes,  and  with  a  strangled  groan  falls 

to  the  ground.) 
Serle.     Leper !     Leper ! 
Guido.     Old  man,  old  man,  forgive  me ! 
David.     Hush  .  .  .  He  speaks ! 
Serle.     Dost  think  that  I  have  lived  these  bloody 

years, 

Endured  these  agonies  and  fought  this  fight, 
That  I  should  now  deliver  thee  my  soul 
Because  thou  eatest  away  this  flesh  of  mine, 
Stealing  the  maggots'  certain  meal?    Back,  back, 
0  Prince  of  Darkness,  this  flame  thou  canst  not  eat ! 

(Staggers  to  his  feet.) 
Shepherd,  I  feel  the  stars ! 

[  46  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

David.     There  will  be  many  soon. 

Serle  (lifting  his  arms).     God  of  battles,  I,  that  was 

a  man, 

Do  offer  up  to  Thee  that  which  remains ! 
Thine  enemy  hath  eat  the  flesh  of  me 
And  made  me  fetid  in  the  sight  of  men, 
And  soon  he  sendeth  death  to  bear  me  hence. 
0  Lord,  the  little  life  vouchsafed  me, 
Let  it  not  waste  in  useless  burial. 
Thou  comest  soon  again  to  see  Thy  people. 

0  let  me  go  once  more  to  my  Provence 
To  tell  them  of  Thy  coming  and  of  Thee ! 
Thou  that  dost  love  the  fighting  heart  of  man, 
Let  me  prepare  them !    Let  me,  0  Lord,  go  home. 

David  (kneeling).     Lord,  I  am  Thy  child!     For 
give  me  all 

And  let  me  fight  again  in  Thy  behalf ! 
Bless  me,  old  man,  for  I  shall  take  thee  home. 

Ouido.     David,  thou'lt  set  him  free? 

David.     And  more,  much  more. 

1  '11  go  with  him,  protect  him,  follow  him, 

And  preach  with  him  the  God  he 's  shown  to  me.  .  .  . 
1 11  steal  the  horses  and  set  forth  to-night ; 
Across  the  Tuscan  border  we  are  safe. 

Guido.     But  what,  old  man,  is  this  that  you  would 

preach  ? 
Serle.     Prepare,  prepare !     The  Lord  walks  in  His 

world ! 

Guido.     And  should  they  ask  your  name? 
Serle.     Serle  de  Lanlarazon. 
Guido.     The  heretic ! 

[  47  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Serle.     But  come  to  preach  with,  late-learned  gen 
tleness 
A  God  all  men  accept. 

David.    The  wars  have  ceased,  Guido. 

Guido.     Because  the  heretics  are  slain. 

Serle.     They  could  not  wholly  die. 

Guido.     If  they  should  ask,  "Serle  de  Lanlarazon, 
When  you  cursed  Rome,  did  you  then  lie?" 

Serle.     It  was  the  truth. 

Guido.     Is  evil  still  itself,  eternal? 

Serle.     As  always,  hence  the  eternal  strife. 

Guido.     Do  you  recant  ?    Submit  you  to  the  church  ? 

Serle.    A  thousand  times,  no. 

Guido.    David,  you  ride  to  death! 
When  they  discover  he  who  preaches  God  's 
Lanlarazon,  they'll  burn  the  two  of  you, 
No  matter  if  his  words  were  learned  of  Christ! 

Serle.     Wouldst  counsel  cowardice? 

Guido.     Not  that,  I  swear,  not  that!     But  what's 
the  gain? 

Serle.     There  is  no  gain,  perhaps ;  the  fight  is  all. 

Guido.     I  see  no  fight.    I  see  a  wide-flung  glory, 
A  world  that  is  not  bad,  so  full  of  beauty 
I  need  no  proof,  as  thou,  it  comes  from  God. 

Serle.     The  beauty  thou  dost  know  is  temporal. 
Thou  seest  the  world  dew-drenched!     'Tis  drenched 
in  blood! 

Guido.     I  am  not  less  a-shine  with  God  than  thou ! 

Serle.     The  God  of  youth,  a  fair  god  but  most  frail. 

Guido.     Him  I  adore ;  I  see,  I  need  no  other. 

Serle.     Already  thou  dost  fear  and  wait  His  death ! 
This  little  prelude  to  eternity, 

[  48  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

Is  it  an  hour  of  roses  and  of  song  ? 

This  throe  that  leads  at  last  to  heaven  or  hell, 

Is  loveliness  its  only  quality? 

What  of  the  large  endurance  of  the  soul  ? 

The  heroic  heart,  the  wild  nobility? 

Guido.     All  that  will  come — I  have  so  many  years 
to  live ! 

Serle.     If  thou  wert  free  this  instant,  where  wouldst 
thou  go? 

Guido.    To  Sicily ! 

Serle.     Once  there,  what  wouldst  thou  do  ? 

Guido.     The  Emperor's  court  has  thousands  of  de 
lights. 

Serle.     And  is  that  all? 

Guido.     Then,  later 

Serle.    What?    What? 

David.    No  crusades,  Guido. 

Serle.    Wilt  thou  not  offer  up  thy  gallant  heart 
To  something  sterner  than  delights  of  youth  ? 
Thou  hast  drunk  deep  of  happiness,  wilt  still 
Drink  on,  oblivious  to  all  but  bliss? 
(Tenderly.)      Child  of  the  springtime  voice,   could 

youth  last  always 

There  were  no  need  of  heaven.  .  .  . 
In  youth  the  world  is  but  an  April  wood 
Through  which  we  ride  with  holiday,  light  hearts. 
The  boughs  are  dreamy  with  new-opened  blooms, 
The  laughter  of  the  air  shakes  petals  down, 
The  forest  paths  are  dappled  with  the  sun, 
And  youth  rides  by  with  half -closed,  taunting  eyes, 
Drinking  his  fill  of  Life's  delicious  prime, 
In  idleness  that  is  a  noble  dream. 

[  49  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

He  hears  the  breathing  of  the  magic  world, 
And,  head-bent,  listens  to  the  inner  song 
That  gushes  lustrously  from  his  own  heart. 
Yet,  as  he  rides,  anon  he  hears  far  off 
Across  the  boughs  a  trumpet  note ;  he  stops, 
And  something  stirs  and  answers  deep  in  him. 
The  sound  fades ;  on  he  rides.    A  nearer  blast 
Shouts  out ;  Youth  listens  with  his  lifted  eyes ; 
Another!    The  blossoms  are  broken!    Another,  more 

loud! 
And  suddenly  all  of  the  wood  is  shaken  with  trumpets 

and  shouts 
And  calls  and  commands  and  sounds  of  the  battle 

affray. 

For,  lo !  the  wood  leads  out  to  the  bloody,  bare  plain 
Where  the  legions  of  God  are  engaged  to  the  death. 
Hard  pressed  are  the  knights  of  the  Lord ;  they  charge 

and  are  felled, 

And  arise  and  return  to  be  slain. 
And  over  the  clamor  and  dust  of  the  fight, 
The  thundering  voice  of  the  Lord 
Giving  heart  to  the  banners  of  purple  and  red  of  His 

hosts! 
And  filled  with  the  dreams  and  the  wonder  he  learned 

in  the  woods, 
Youth  rushes  in,  turns  his  back  to  the  sunshine  and 

glamor, 

Draws  sword  and  brings  succor  to  them  that  are  faint 
And  oppressed  with  the  strife,  and  fights  on  till  he  dies. 
Thou  too,  thou  too  art  lordly-souled,  O  youth, 
Thou  wilt  not  shun  the  sword-play  of  thy  God! 
Choose !    The  bare  plain  is  ahead ! 

[  50  1 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

David   (turning    passionately    to    Guido).      Come 

with  us,  Guido.    His  words  seem  God 's  to  me ; 
And  thou  art  not  afraid.    Thou  broughtest 
Into  the  evil  world  around  me  here 
Goodness,  and  I  remembered  Nicholas. 
Thou  art  my  only  friend.    Come  with  us,  Guido. 

(Guido  stands  with  lifted  head,  deeply  moved,  un 
certain,  A  film  of  amethyst  afterglow  is  across 
the  west;  there  are  many  stars.  Intense  silence, 
then  the  sound  of  a  shepherd's  flute  rises  from 
the  road,  passes,  and  fades.  A  long  pause. 
Guido  listens,  entranced.) 

Guido.    Didst  hear  that  flute? 

Serle.     Not  when  the  voice  of  God  rings  in  my  ears ! 

Guido  (passionately).    My  God  spoke  also!     My 

God  is  not  your  God ! 

Why  do  ye  think  the  trees  disrobe  themselves 
In  gales  of  color  gorgeously, 
Instead  of  one  swift  greyness ; 
Why  do  ye  think  the  stars  swing  past 
In  visible  magnificence  ? 
The  sea  could  bear  its  traffic 
Without  the  tumult  of  its  coloring ; 
Sheep  could  be  led  without  that  shepherd's  fluting, 
And  children  born  without  the  primrose  moon 
In  western  skies !    Deaf  and  blind ! 
Ye  speak  as  transients  through  life,  who  know 
Nothing  of  this  divine,  mysterious  earth 
My  element !    Speak  not  to  me  of  purposes, 
Sure  death,  eternal  wrong! 
I  am  a  leaf  of  scarlet, 

[  51  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

A  summer-tinted  cloud, 

A  kiss  in  the  dark,  forgotten  soon, 

But  red,  desired  of  many ! 

Hell  does  not  gape  beneath  my  feet,  and  if 

About  my  head  the  almond  blossoms  crowd, 

What  need  have  I  of  heaven  ?  .   .   .  David,  David, 

I  cannot  go ! 

(A  pause.    The  sound  of  horses  approaching  on  the 
road.    All  listen.) 

Guido.     The  guards  returning! 
David.     No,  not  before  midnight. 
Guido.    What  can  it  be?  .   .   .  God,  let  me  out  of 
this  place ! 

(The    horses    stop    below.      A    boy's    voice    calls 
"Master!") 

Guido  (calls  down).    Felice !    It's  my  page,  David! 

He 's  come  for  me ! 
Page  of  mine,  come  up,  come  quickly  up ! 

(Watching  over  the  parapet.) 
An  empty  saddle!    That's  for  me!    Free,  free! 
They've  tied  their  horses  just  below  us — 
They've  crossed  the  moat — They're  coming — 
Sicily!    At  last!    At  last! 

David  (rousing  himself).     But  you  are  prisoners! 
If  you  are  seen,  then  I  am  prisoner  too. 

(Sound  of  footsteps  in  the  corridor.)    Too  late ! 

(Felice,  a  thirteen-year-old  page,  rushes  in,  leaps  into 
Guido' s  arms.     A  guard  follows  with  a  torch; 
fixes  it  in  the  wall  and  goes  out.} 
[  52  ] 


IN  APKIL  ONCE 

Felice.    Master,  I  found  the  Emperor  at  Capua 
In  conference  with  the  papal  delegates. 
The  long  feud's  at  an  end. 

He  and  the  Pope  are  friends  and  you're  released — 
Downstairs  his  nuncio  makes  all  arrangements. 
Our  horses  wait  below ! 

Guido.    What  a  page !    David,  you  know  Felice. 
I  wish  that  you  could  go  with  us ! 
We'll  start  at  once.    Good-bye,  good-bye, 
Dear  friends,  we  're  off  to  Sicily ! 

Felice.    Not  Sicily. 

Guido.    Not  Sicily? 

Felice.     The  Emperor  sends  us  on  a  mission  north. 

Guido.     But  where  ? 

Felice.     Into  Provence. 

Guido.     With  roundelays  to  some  fair  Queen  of 
Love? 

Felice.    Nay,  Master,  'tis  at  last  the  great  adven 
ture! 

Guido.     Speak  out,  Felice. 

Felice.     We  bear  the  tidings  of  a  great  crusade. 
To-morrow  we'll  he  soldiers  of  the  Cross. 

Guido.     Go  on. 

Felice.     The  Pope  has  won  the  Emperor's  consent 
To  lead  an  army  'gainst  the  heretics. 

Guido.     'Tis  a  lie ! 

Felice.     It  is  the  truth. 
And  we  to  bishops,  princes,  potentates 
Bring  the  good  news — 
War,  war,  till  the  last  heretic  is  dead. 

Serle.     My  people,  0  my  people ! 
Shepherd,  we  must  go  now ! 
[  53  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

David.     Too  late.    The  guard  who  brought  the  page 

is  now  below 

Warning  them  I  've  unloosed  the  prisoners. 
They  will  return  to  put  us  both  in  chains. 

Serle.     0  God,  the  murders  and  the  burnings  once 

again ! 
Must  the  truth  die  utterly,  utterly ! 

(A  sound  of  footsteps.) 
David.     There  is  the  guard. 

Guido.     Close  that  door.  (David  hesitates.)  Close  it, 
Bolt  it. 

(David  and  Felice  close  and  bolt  the  great  door  lead 
ing  into  the  interior  of  the  castle.) 

Guido.     Up  on  my  shoulder,  page.    Take  down  the 
ladder. 

(Felice  on  Guido' 's  shoulder  climbs  up  and  takes  down 
the  rope  ladder  from  Guido's  window.) 

'Twill  reach  the  ground. 

(A  loud  knock  on  the  door.) 
Quick,  make  it  fast. 

(They  fasten  the  ladder  to  the  parapet  so  that  it  drops 
to  the  road.    Voices  inside  call  "Open!" 

Guido  (calls  out) .     I  am  the  prisoner  to  be  released. 
Three  minutes,  friends,  while  I  change  raiment.  .   .   . 
David,  Felice,  take  the  old  man  down, 
Ride  north ! 

Five  minutes'  start  and  you  are  safe. 
Go,  warn  them  that  so  soon  must  die. 

David.     But  you? 

[  54  ] 


IN  APBIL  ONCE 

Guido   (taking    David's    broadsword).      I'll    hold 
them  here. 

Felice.     Master 

Guido.     Go,  page  of  mine,  Felice. 
Serle.     Thou  child  of  God! 

(David  falls  on  his  knees  and  catches  Guide's  hand, 
overcome. ) 

Guido.     Go,   David,   quickly,   quickly — God-speed! 

(Felice  and  David  with  difficulty  help  Serle  over  the 
parapet  and  disappear.  Guido  stands  before  the 
door,  leaning  on  his  sword.) 

How  hatefully  thou  lovest  me,  God ! 
Voices  within.     Open. 
Guido.     Another  minute,  friends ! 

(Cries  of  "Open,"  confused  noise;  they  batter  on  the 
door,  finally  breaking  it  in.) 

Guido.     Back,  there,  villains ! 

(Guido  rushes  in  with  the  broadsword,  forcing  them 
into  the  passageway.  The  sound  of  horses'  hoofs; 
it  dies  out.  Guido  fights  desperately;  a  guard 
rushes  under  his  arm,  stabs  him.  He  staggers 
and  falls.  The  guards  enter,  look  around,  think 
he  is  dead  and  go  out.  Enter  Felice  over  the  edqe 
of  the  parapet. ) 

Felice.     Master,  Master! 

(Finds  Guido  and  lifts  him  in  his  arms.) 

Guido.     Thou,   Felice?    .    .    .    Thou  didst  return 
to  me? 

[  55  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Felice.     I  could  not  leave  thee. 

Guido.     I  'm  glad.  .  .   .  And  they  have  gone  ? 

Felice.     They  're  safe.  .  .   .  But  thou  art  wounded ! 

Guido.     I'm  glad  we  are  alone.     "Pis  almost  like 
Dying  in  Sicily. 

Felice.     Master,  thou  canst  not  die ! 

Guido.     I  should  not  die. 
Death  has  mistook  his  quarry,  and  Jesus  sleeps. 

(He  sinks  down.} 

Felice  (terrified}.     I'll  fetch  a  priest. 

Guido.     Stay  here. 
I  am  beyond  the  laying  on  of  hands. 
My  deeds  were  not.    My  aspirations  lacked 
Not  beauty,  but  singleness  of  purpose. 
And  I  have  lived. 

No  priest  can  mend  what 's  broken  here. 
And  for  the  rest  .  .  . 
Persephone  or  Mary  will  recall 
That  I  on  earth  was  young  and  beautiful.  .   .   . 
Help  me  up,  page,  where  I  may  see  the  world. 

(Felice  supports  him  to  the  parapet.} 
I  shall  miss  the  iris  skies  and  wet,  clear  stars 
Of  these  our  April  evenings  .  .  . 
And  thee,  Felice  .  .  . 
Can  any  other  world  be  half  so  lovely, 
Or  any  other  life  so  sweet? 
This  earthly  ecstasy  not  yet  half -lived, 
This  heady  vintage  of  days  and  nights 
Sipped  only  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  is  as  well.  .  .  . 
When  thou  dost  see  Palermo,  rising  from  the  sea, 
Felice,  think  of  me.  .  .  . 

[  56  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

The  bursting  wave  of  life, 

Breast  it  with  twofold  joy,  remembering  me. 

Felice  (sobbing).     I  am  thy  page.     Ah,  leave  me 
not  alone. 

Guido.    Hush,  hush !    But  yet,  forget  me  never. 
Hold  me — I  cannot  see — There,  there — 
I  would  that  now  I  could  find  words  of  counsel 
Which  might  protect  thee  always;  but 
I,  too,  am  young  and  still  untaught. 
Yet  treasure  this : 

Pray  often,  as  you  sing,  unthinkingly ; 
'Twill  Jesus  please,  and  then,  it  sweetens  one. 

0  littlest  comrade  of  my  heart, 

Doubt  not  the  world  is  good  and  mankind  mostly 

noble. 

That  I  have  lived  unstained 
Hath  profited  me  surely  by  the  gift 
Of  deep  delight.    The  lips  of  harlotry 
Can  never  kiss  the  sun 
With  the  light  rapture  that  was  ours.  .   .  . 
The  rest  I  did  not  learn. 

Felice.     Why  didst  thou  fight  to  save  those  men, 
Master  ? 

Guido.    Something  about  God — I  can 't  remember — 

1  had  to  fight — 

Closer,  Felice.  ...     I  'm  sleepy. 
Sing  me  that  song  we  made 
As  we  rode  up  from  Sicily. 

Felice.     I  cannot. 

Guido.     The  little  song  .  .  . 

Felice  (sings). 

[  57  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

Jesu, 

If  Thou  wilt  make 
Thy  peach  trees  bloom  for  me, 
And  fringe  my  bridle  paths  both  sides 
"With  tulips  red  and  free, 
If  Thou  wilt  make  Thy  skies  as  blue 

As  ours  in  Sicily, 
And  wake  the  little  leaves  that  sleep 

On  every  bending  tree, 
I  promise  not  to  vexen  Thee 
That  Thou  shouldst  make  eternally 
Heaven,  my  home. 

But  right  contentedly 

Master !    Master ! 

(Guido  dies.) 

Voice  of  the  Madman.     Son  of  David,  have  mercy 
on  us! 


[58  ] 


NEW  MOON 

Now  day, 

Drawing  his  golden  waters  down  the  west, 
Forsakes  the  loitering,  low-bosomed  moon. 
Naked  amid  the  unaccustomed  stars 
She  stands,  afraid,  then  down  the  shining  ebb 
Hastens  to  hide  her  girlish  loveliness 
From  their  too  youthful  wonder  in  the  sea. 


WHERE  ILIUM  WAS  PROUD 

Along  the  sands  where  Ilium  was  proud 

A  crimson  laurel  bush,  that  draws,  perhaps, 

From  Priam's  ancient  buried  house  its  blood, 

Sprinkles  with  flame  the  unbeholding  waste 

In  luxury  of  summer-hearted  bliss. 

Ah,  better  so  its  given  years  to  burn 

Unseen  of  maidens  and  young  warriors 

Than,  plucked  untimely,  to  have  flushed  an  hour 

The  white  of  Helen's  bosom  on  a  night 

When  Paris  leaned  across  the  lights  and  laughter 

To  drink  her  up  with  hot,  unmanly  eyes. 

Its  crimson,  fading  with  the  dawn,  had  been 

Only  a  deathless  tale  in  poets'  mouths. 


EURIPIDES 

To  him  the  fate  we  bear  was  like  a  sea 

That  sweeps  above  the  many  ships  that  sailed, 

And  waits  as  home  for  all  that  sail  again. 

Bitter  intolerably,  and  deep  as  death; 

But  shining,  too,  shining  and  full  of  spray, 

In  color  stained  lovelier  than  the  sky, 

Singing  a  requiem  for  them  that  die 

Adventuring  on  its  bounds,  or,  dauntless,  sing 

When  roaring  and  inevitable  wash 

Heaves  down  the  prows.  .   .   .  His  heart  was  full  of 

stars, 

His  prayers  only  to  gods  that  deathlessly 
Abide  and  dream  no  sin.    And  Syracuse 
That  builded  on  the  sea,  loved  his  name  most. 


FAREWELL  TO  ETNA 

Great  mountain,  swathed  in  blue  with  foamy  crest 

Of  fire,  majestic  as  the  mighty  sea, 

Thy  brother  and  immortal  comrade  close, 

The  stars  except,  sole  comrade  fitting,  equal — 

Only,  perhaps,  as  dust  upon  the  wind 

Shall  I  behold  again  thy  spreading  might. 

Yet  no  regret  is  mine.     I  have  thee  in 

My  soul,  though  lodgment  base,  where  room  the  stars 

And  many  a  tide  of  vestal-footed  ocean. 

Nor  waste  I  tears  that  now  the  Cyclops  brood 

Is  dead,  and  never  hoarse,  heroic  blast 

Shall  hurl  again  in  white  and  purple  yeast 

Odysseus  and  the  dark-eyed  mariners. 

Nor  foe  of  gods  nor  friend  thy  splendor  saw 

Than  now  more  dark,  more  high  majestical. 

Thy  color  of  solemnity  doth  stain 

The  temporal  and  wayward  thing  I  house. 

But  if,  when  I  am  sown  upon  the  air, 

Another,  seeing  thee  against  the  sunken  sun 

In  folds  of  wine-dark  gauze  and  amethyst, 

Should  rise  to  exaltation  more  superb 

Than  mine,  and  praise  with  loftier  flight  of  soul 

Thy  splendor  that  to-night  is  all  my  own — 

That  were  regret!    Lend  me  thy  purple  thought, 

Eternal  brooding  vigilant,  that  I 

May  counsel  with  my  soul  to  rival  his. 


[  62  ] 


THE  IMMORTAL  RESIDUE 

Love  and  the  lofty  heart  and  tears — these  three 
Immortal  are,  and  draw  eternally 
Deep  from  the  young  world's  loveliness  their  life. 
The  kiss,  the  prayer,  the  cry — the  same  to-day 
As  when  the  brute  with  noble  pang  distressed 
Cleared  the  abysm  and  was  man.    Than  these 
Not  surer  come  the  stars,  nor  flooding  up 
The  rainy  slopes  of  spring  dark  violets. 
More  utterly  than  sunset  cloud  dissolved, 
Soft  Syracuse  has  passed.    The  bannered  fleet 
That  flashed  into  her  harbor  scornfully 
Left  not  a  ghostly  sail  to  haunt  the  blue. 
And  they  that  heard  in  Athens  ere  they  came 
Great  Socrates,  whose  spoken  word  was  like 
The  calm  intoning  of  the  lustral  ocean, 
Before  they  perished  in  their  slavery, 
Bequeathed  not  any  dream  for  us  to  learn. 
Nor  shall  we  know  the  thought  of  those  tall  girls 
That  stood  where  now  the  yellow  gorse  stands  high, 
And  in  their  golden,  fluttering  loveliness 
Watched  the  young  prisoners.    Instead,  remain 
The  bay,  the  bubble  air,  the  secret  dust, 
These,  and  the  mortal  kinship  that  we  own. 
Kisses  they  whispered  for  I  beg  to-day. 
Their  eyes  did  never  blur  but  I  could  guess. 
And  as  their  spirits  stood,  tall  as  the  sword 
Of  one  that  guards  the  portal  of  a  queen 
And  leans  thereon  in  moonlight,  mine  hath  stood. 
[  63  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

I  know  their  loves  and  winged  hearts  and  tears, 
And  mine  shall  every  man  that  lives  know  too; 
And  so  the  same,  forever,  to  the  close. 
Perhaps  some  spring  a  thousand  years  from  now 
Two  crowned  ineffably  with  youth,  their  hearts 
A-toss  in  wind-flower  dance  before  the  sun, 
Loitering  lover-wise  across  the  fields 
And  empty  places  that  I  knew,  may  chance 
Upon  the  rubble  where  I  dream,  and  muse : 
''Those  old  barbarians,  dead  so  long  ago, 
Was  life  to  them  so  fair,  and  did  the  sun 
Shine  honey-sweet  into  their  open  hearts? 
Could  they  have  ever  dreamed  such  love  as  ours, 
Or  dared,  0  love,  this  slow,  divinest  kiss  ? ' ' 
Their  words,  I  know,  shall  warm  the  flower  roots 
That  were  my  heart.    To  them  as  now  to  me 
May  day  be  only  blue;  all  moon  the  night; 
And  may  enamored  fate  a  little  while 
Hold  back  their  portion  due  of  tears  and  dark. 


SET  OF  MOON 

The  archeress  had  gone; 
A  western  hill  across  her  path  still  bore 
The  magic  of  her  recent  footing  there; 
And  upwards  all  the  air  was  lustra!  pure. 
The  city  slept,  but  far  above  shone  bright 
The  city  of  the  gods  that  never  sleep. 


PART  II.     LYRICAL  PIECES 


OVERTONES 

I  heard  a  bird  at  break  of  day 

Sing  from  the  autumn  trees 
A  song  so  mystical  and  calm, 

So  full  of  certainties, 
No  man,  I  think,  could  listen  long 

Except  upon  his  knees. 
Yet  this  was  but  a  simple  bird 

Alone,  among  dead  trees. 


IN  NEW  YORK 

1.  ON  SUNDAY  MORNING 

Far,  far  from  here  the  church  bells  ring, 

As  when  I  was  a  child, 
And  there  is  one  I  dearly  love 

Walks  in  the  sunlight  mild. 
To  church  she  goes,  and  with  her  once 

I  went,  a  little  child. 

The  church  bells  ring  far,  far  away, 

The  village  streets  are  bright, 
The  sunlight  falls  in  slanting  bars 

And  fills  the  church  with  light. 
And  I  remember  when  I  knelt 

Beside  her,  in  delight. 

There's  something  lost,   there's  something  lost, 

Some  wisdom  has  beguiled ! 
My  heart  has  flown  a  thousand  miles 

And  in  the  sunlight  mild 
I  kneel  and  weep  beside  her  there 

As  she  prays  for  her  child. 

2.  THE  SONG  YOU  LOVE 

When  I  have  sung  the  sweet  songs  and  the  sad, 

The  songs  of  magic  drifting  from  above, 

The  trumpet  songs  that  shout  across  men's  souls, 

[  70  ] 


IN  NEW  YORK 

The  sleep-song,  breasted  softer  than  the  dove, 
Still  there  will  be  one  song  I  have  not  sung — 
The  song  you  love,  the  song  you  love. 

What  are  the  torches  of  the  world  to  you, 
The  words  that  comfort  men  and  calm  their  fears? 
What  are  the  stars  with  their  strange  harmonies, 
Or  fate  that  shadows  all,  or  death  that  jeers  ? 
There  must  be  laughter  in  the  song  you  love 
And  at  the  end  there  must  be  tears. 

When  I  have  come  to  that  green  place  we  know 
Where  cedars  stand  that  have  no  faith  in  spring, 
Where  through  the  utter  peace  of  afternoon 
The  mocking-birds  their  heartless  raptures  fling, 
Long  after  it  is  dust,  one  heart  there  11  be 
Restless  with  words  it  could  not  sing. 

3.     WEARINESS 

I  sometimes  think  Thou  art  my  secret  love ; 

But  not  to-night.  .  .  .  To-night  I  have  the  need 

Of  human  tenderness ;  not  hovering  wings, 

But  one  warm  breast  where  I  may  lay  my  head 

And  close  my  eyes.    For  I  am  tired  to-night.  .  .  . 

The  park  was  full  of  lovers, 

And  such  a  slender  moon  looked  down  on  them.  .  .  . 

For  one  kiss  of  one  mouth,  free-given,  I 

Would  give — what's  left  of  me  to-night 

To  the  last  dream ! 

Art  Thou  a  jealous  god? 

Dost  think  to  force  by  loneliness 

[  71  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

Unwilling  love  to  Thee  ? 

Beware,  beware !    The  winds  of  madness  blow 
Strong,  strong  on  nights  like  these !  .  .  . 
Thou  dost  deny  me  what's  of  life  most  sweet, 
The  bending  head  and  lovely  eyes  of  love — 
Then  give,  beseech  Thee,  give  me  sleep. 

4.     IN  THE  NIGHT 

Drifting,  groping 

For  delight ; 

Longing,  hoping 

All  the  night. 

Perfume  of 

Blossomed  hair — 

Where  is  love? 

Ah,  no,  not  there!   .    .    . 

Not  there. 

Turning,  turning, 

Sleepless-eyed, 

Something  burning 

At  my  side — 

Winds  that  sweep 

Poppied  hair, 

Where  is  sleep? 

Ah,  no,  not  there!   .    .    . 

Not  there? 

5.     HOME 

I  have  a  need  of  silence  and  of  stars ; 
Too  much  is  said  too  loudly ;  I  am  dazed. 

[  72  ] 


IN  NEW  YOEK 

The  silken  sound  of  whirled  infinity 

Is  lost  in  voices  shouting  to  be  heard. 

I  once  knew  men  as  earnest  and  less  shrill. 

An  undermeaning  that  I  caught  I  miss 

Among  these  ears  that  hear  all  sounds  save  silence, 

These  eyes  that  see  so  much  but  not  the  sky, 

These  minds  that  gain  all  knowledge  but  no  calm. 

If  suddenly  the  desperate  music  ceased, 

Could  they  return  to  life  ?  or  would  they  stand 

In  dancers'  attitudes,  puzzled,  polite, 

And  striking  vaguely  hand  on  tired  hand 

For  an  encore,  to  fill  the  ghastly  pause  ? 

I  do  not  know.    Some  rhythm  there  may  be 

I  cannot  hear.    But  I — oh,  I  must  go 

Back  where  the  breakers  of  deep  sunlight  roll 

Across  flat  fields  that  love  and  touch  the  sky ; 

Back  to  the  more  of  earth,  the  less  of  man, 

Where  there  is  still  a  plain  simplicity, 

And  friendship,  poor  in  everything  but  love, 

And  faith,  unwise,  unquestioned,  but  a  star,  ffl 

Soon  now  the  peace  of  summer  will  be  there 

With  cloudy  fire  of  myrtles  in  full  bloom ; 

And,  when  the  marvelous  wide  evenings  come, 

Across  the  molten  river  one  can  see 

The  misty  willow-green  of  Arcady. 

And  then — the  summer  stars  ...  I  will  go  home. 


[  73  ] 


THE  WANDERER 

I  have  grown  weary  of  the  open  sea, 
The  chartless  ways,  the  storms,  the  loneliness, 
The  coast  that  topples,  tall  and  shelterless — 
Weary  of  faring  where  all  things  are  free ! 

Yet  once  the  open  sea  was  all  romance, 
Purple  and  olive-stained  and  golden-scaled; 
And  every  breeze  from  some  adventure  hailed, 
And  shoals  were  silver  for  the  moon  to  dance. 

The  cliffs  were  only  tall  to  keep  untrod 
The  kingdom  of  the  fay  hung  high  in  air, 
And  every  storm  was  but  Poseidon's  dare, 
And  brave  it  was  to  battle  with  a  god. 

Ah,  blithe  it  was  when  the  mad  night  was  done 
And  day  with  flying  hair  woke  wild  and  white, 
To  see  the  salty  sail  loom  in  the  light 
And  know  one  battle  more  was  bravely  won. 

Then  these  were  magic  seas  that  ever  rang 
With  melodies,  now  wild,  now  sweet,  now  glad; 
At  dusk  the  drifting  choirs  unseen  were  sad 
And  in  the  lulls  of  night  the  sirens  sang. 

They  sing  no  more ;  the  colors  now  are  grey ; 
The  cliffs  defend  not  fairyland,  but  home ; 
And  when  th'  impenitent,  hoar  sea  has  clomb 
The  clouds,  I  have  no  heart  to  sing  or  pray. 

[   74  ] 


THE  WANDERER 

Oh,  I  am  weary  of  the  open  sea, 
Vigils  and  storms  and  watches  without  name, 
The  ache  of  long  resistance  without  aim, 
The  fetters  of  the  fetterless  and  free. 

There  is  some  haven  that  no  tempest  mars, 

Some  brown-hilled  harbor,  hushed  and  clear  and  deep, 

Where  tired  evening  may  sit  down  and  weep, 

And,  waking,  find  not  water  there  but  stars. 

There  would  I  creep  at  last  ere  day  is  done, 
With  ashen  sail  dropped  down  and  cordage  white ; 
There  rest  secure,  there  find  before  the  night 
A  little  hour  of  peace,  a  little  sun ! 


THE  MAN  IN  WHITE 

(Ambulance  drivers  from  the  Front  tell  that  to 
the  grievously  wounded,  alone  on  the  battlefield,  the 
hallucination  often  comes  of  a  man  in  white  who 
comforts  them.) 

1 '  Soldier,  knowest  thou  the  land 

The  land  that's  home  to  thee?" 

"Stranger,  with  the  voice  not  strange, 
Why  do  you  lean  to  me, 

A  wounded  man,  and  put  a  word 
That  mocks  my  memory?" 

"Soldier,  I  am  from  that  land, 

The  land  that's  home  to  thee." 
' '  0  stranger  with  the  gentle  hands, 

Now  let  your  pity  be. 
You  have  no  word  what  land  is  mine, 

Your  closed  eyes  cannot  see 
As  mine,  as  mine,  the  land  of  lands, 

The  land  where  I  would  be. ' ' 

"I  see  a  field  of  apple  trees 

That  top  a  furrowed  hill, 
A  little  house,  a  little  room, 

A  flowered  window  sill. 
A  woman  with  a  face  like  thine, 

But  eyes  more  sweet  and  still, 
Who  prays  across  the  gathered  dusk 

To  guard  her  child  from  ill. ' ' 
[  76  ] 


THE  MAN  IN  WHITE 

"My  God,  my  God,  I  fear  to  look 
Lest  there  be  no  man  by ! 

If  this  be  but  a  fever  dream 
0  let  me  sleep  and  die 

And  never  know  a  blessed  ghost 
From  home  had  heard  my  cry. ' ' 

1 '  See  me,  touch  me,  let  thy  head 

On  my  bosom  weigh. 
This,  the  kiss  your  mother  sent, 

That  on  your  lips  I  lay." 
"Yes — it  is  hers — no  other  drives 

The  awful  pain  away — 
I  think — that  I  could  fall  asleep — 

If  you — would  only — stay." 

* '  Rest  thee,  rest  thee  on  my  breast, 
Let  the  deep  sleep  come. 

Rest  thee,  rest  thee,  soldier  lad, 
Time  is  past  to  roam. 

Waking,  I  shall  still  be  near, 
And  we  shall  be  at  home." 


THE  WOOD 

There  was  a  knight  once  rode  from  out  the  sun 
Into  a  twilight  wood,  forever  still. 
It  was  a  place  for  blue-eyed  knights  to  shun, 
For  such  are  liefer  to  enchantments  ill. 
Deep  in  the  wood  he  rode  with  head  bent  low  .  .  . 
There  was  no  sound  save  tired  leaves  that  fell. 
His  lance  hung  listless  from  his  saddle  bow ; 
Pale  was  his  armor;  pale  his  mouth  as  well. 
The  old  adventures  and  the  knightly  bouts 
Seemed  faint  and  far  as  shapes  in  fever  seen. 
Because  his  dreams  had  died,  but  not  his  doubts, 
His  eyes  were  grey  that  had  been  blue,  I  ween. 

But  whether  he  that  haunted  wood  passed  through, 
Or  came  unto  the  marsh,  I  never  knew. 


[  78  ] 


IN  THE  STORM 

The  shining  moments  are  so  far  between ! 
From  their  clear  crests  we  see  the  dawn  unfurled 
In  films  of  opal  on  the  dew-drenched  world — • 
Life,  life,  daedal,  harmonious,  serene ! 
Then  darkness.    For  that  aerial  wide  scene, 
Tempests  down  mountain  by-paths  madly  hurled; 
This  way  and  that  our  tortured  souls  are  whirled, 
Blinded,  aghast,  beneath  the  lightning's  green. 
The  peaks  are  moments ;  lifelong  lasts  the  dark. 
Yet,  soul,  be  strong !    Thou  hast  beheld  the  sun, 
Hast  known  that  life  is  wisdom  and  is  one. 
Stanch  thy  despair !    The  cloud-rack  thou  dost  mark 
May  hide  a  crest  whereto  thy  wanderings  bend. 
And  this,  too,  ends.    There  is  a  certain  end. 


[  79] 


MR.  W.  H.  TO  THE  POET 
(Thanking  him  for  a  copy  of  "The  Tempest.") 

My  thanks,  dear  friend,  as  always !    But,  I  fear 

No  art — not  Prospero's — can  speak  to  me 

As  those  swift  words  you  breathed  first  in  my  ear. 

They  were  your  heart ;  this  but  your  wizardry. 

We  have  lived  much,  won  much,  and  now  are  old. 

Strange,  is  it  not,  when  I  call  in  review 

My  life 's  achievements,  dross  and  drab  and  gold, 

There's  nothing  shines  but  took  its  light  from  you? 

And  yet,  as  I  reread  our  book  to-night, 

And  trembled  almost  at  some  old-loved  line, 

I  wondered  if  the  world,  so  prone  to  slight, 

Would  some  day  slur  your  stainless  name  with  mine, 

Not  knowing  there  is  ice  in  heavenly  flame, 

And  Friendship  is  Love 's  canonized  name. 


NOVEMBER 

How  has  November  won 

More  loveliness 
With  opal  mist  and  sun 

Than  spring  can  boast? 

The  village  houses  all 

Wear  aureoles. 
Their  smoke  is  pale  and  tall 

As  Abel's  was. 

The  winds  adoringly 

On  tiptoe  pause, 
Nor  grudge  the  branches  free 

Slow  gift  of  leaves. 

And  on  the  air  one  note 
Clear,  clear,  and  sad, 

From  the  unmated  throat 
Of  some  lone  bird. 

0  earth,  that  doth  confess 

In  beauty  God, 
How  calm  the  happiness, 

How  close  the  tears ! 


PROLOGUE 

Whose  blood  runs  gay  as  summer 's, 
Whose  heart  is  sure  and  proud, 
Whose  days  are  all  newcomers, 
Whose  nights  are  dream-endowed, — 
Pass  on,  lest  you  should  hear 
Speech  neither  sweet  nor  clear. 

Whose  blood  is  slowly  spilling, 
Whose  heart  has  crimson  scars, 
Whose  days  have  lost  their  thrilling, 
Whose  nights  have  lost  their  stars — 
Pause  here  and  you  will  find 
One  of  your  kith  and  kind. 


I  82  ] 


TO  AN  OLD  TUNE 

You  cannot  choose  but  love,  lad, 
From  dawn  till  twilight  dreary; 
You  cannot  choose  but  love,  lad, 
Though  love  grows  weary,  weary. 

For,  lad,  an  if  you  love  not, 
You  'd  best  have  slept,  unwaking ; 
But,  0,  an  if  you  love,  lad, 
Your  heart  is  breaking,  breaking. 

Though  friends  and  lovers  only 
Fill  life  with  joyous  breath, 
Yet  friend  or  lover  only 
Can  make  you  pray  for  death. 

Throw  open  wide  your  heart  then, 
Love 's  road-house  for  a  mile ! 
And  if  one  turns  to  leave  you 
Or  stab  you — smile,  lad,  smile. 


[  83  ] 


A  HUNGER  SONG 

Some  are  fed  on  kingly  fare, 

Some  starve,  as  fate  decrees; 

Of  those  death  takes  away  the  soul, 
The  body  takes  of  these. 

I  would  not  have  my  soul  to  die ; 

Too  soon  corruption  comes. 
But  two  deaths  I  had  rather  die, 

Than  live  and  live  on  crumbs. 

There  is  a  banquet  table  set 

Within  a  silver  gate 
Where  lads  and  maidens  lightly  feast — 

Outside  the  beggars  wait. 

Oh,  starve  me,  food  and  drink  denied, 
Or  gorge  till  soul  succumbs, 

But  I'll  not  live  as  beggars  do — 
Feed  me  not,  Love,  on  crumbs. 


DEFEAT 

Though  you  have  struck  me  to  the  bloody  core, 
It  is  indeed  only  one  scar  the  more ! 
And  I  '11  not  turn  from  you  as  at  the  other  strokes, 
Nor  say  "Good-bye,"  as  other  times  I  said. 

The  agony  still  chokes, 
And  still  it  seems  most  restful  to  be  dead. 
But  I'll  not  say  "Good-bye"  nor  turn  away, 

Nor  parting  lover  play.  .  .  . 

Leave  you?    Take  everything  save  all — my  heart? 
I  know  the  scene  too  well,  too  well  my  part ! 
Hot  tears  and  bitterness;  and  I  would  go, 
Go  for  an  hour,  a  day,  a  week — 
Is  bitterness  so  short  called  pique  ? 
And  in  the  old,  old  way,  without  regret 

I  would  return  to  you ; 
And  in  the  old,  old  way  you  would  forget 

That  ever  I  had  gone,  and  let 
Some  casual  tenderness 
Be  my  return 's  caress ; 
Or  in  some  vague,  absorbed  distress, 
Lift  up  your  shadow  eyes  to  mine  still  wet. 


LULLABY 

Sleep,  brown-eyed,  sleep. 
'Tis  but  the  winds  that  weep, 
Telling  from  tree  to  tree 
Their  ancient  misery. 
'Tis  but  the  winds  that  weep. 

Sleep.  .   .  .  Sleep. 
'Tis  but  the  touch  of  dreams 
Upon  your  mouth  that  seems 
Like  groping  kisses  .  .  .  Sleep ! 

'Tis  but  the  dreams  .  .  . 
And,  oh,  'tis  but  the  dew 
So  bitter  tastes  to  you, 
Falling  the  long  night  through, 
Falling  on  lips  untrue — 

The  dew,  only  the  dew. 


[  86  ] 


SANCTUARY 

Sweep  over  me,  0  lovely  winds, 
That  shake  the  tasseled  oak ! 

The  patience  of  the  ancient  earth 
Turns  blossom  at  your  stroke, 

The  very  grievance  of  the  air 
Thins  out  to  silver  smoke. 

Sweep  over  me,  0  youthful  winds, 

And  I  will  lie  as  dead 
Upon  the  leaves  that  lived  last  year, 

With  new  leaves  overhead. 
Has  your  beneficence  no  balm 

For  hearts  grown  wearied  ? 

There 's  weariness  of  labor  done 
That  dark  and  sleep  appease; 

And  fragrant  weariness  of  flesh, 
Delightf uller  than  ease ; 

But  there's  a  weariness  that  comes 
More  wearily  than  these, 

With  neither  blossoms  in  its  hair, 
Nor  sleepy  sound  of  rain, 

Nor  bearing  ointments  to  allay 

The  heart  that's  sick  with  pain. 

There  is  a  weariness  that  comes 
And  does  not  go  again. 
[  87  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

0  ancient  earth  that  never  tires, 

0  heavens  that  renew, 
0  winds  that  foam  and  flash  and  blow 

Forever  fresh  as  dew, 
There  is  a  wounded  thing  that  lies 

Face  down,  and  calls  on  you. 


AUTUMNAL 

To-night  the  tumult  of  the  autumn  wind 

Rushes  between  the  ragged  grey  of  heaven 

And  earth's  autumnal  grey — swift,  swift  and  loud — 

Filled  with  the  wings  of  wild  birds  southward  blown 

And  with  the  wings  of  leaves  that  only  fly 

Their  red  and  golden  flight  when  they  are  dead. 

And  we  who  keep  unwillingly  the  earth, 

Are  caught,  are  caught  up  with  the  birds  and  the 

leaves, 

Are  whirled  above  the  spare,  unblossoming  fields, 
Along  the  pallid  torrents  of  the  air, 
Far  from  the  earth  we  know,  past  the  dead  moon, 
Beyond  the  blue-lit,  scattered  spheres  of  night 
That  flicker  down  the  dark  like  shaken  leaves, 
On,  on,  with  the  rushing  wind  of  autumn, 
Out  to  the  stark,  last  outpost  of  creation 
Where  nothingness  surges.  .   .   . 
From  that  wan  strand  where  breaks  that  ebon  tide, 
Could  we  behold,  were  spirit  vision  ours, 
The  blowing  legions  of  the  homeless  dead 
In  wraithy  phosphorus  against  the  void  ? 
A  little  while,  0  winds  that  rush  and  call, 
A  little  while,  0  leaves,  and  we  shall  know ! 


A  SEA  BALLAD 

"Is  that  the  sea,  is  that  the  sea? 
0  mother  dear,  lean  close  to  me. 
Just  there,  outside  the  window  sill, 
The  creeping  tides  are  never  still. ' ' 
' '  Lie  back,  my  son,  the  April  breeze 
Is  dashing  sunlight  on  the  trees. ' ' 

'  *  I  hear  the  sea,  I  hear  the  sea ; 
The  breakers  keen  and  call  to  me ! 
My  father 's  blood  was  mixed  with  brine, 
And,  oh,  my  father's  blood  is  mine." 
* '  'Tis  fever  makes  your  eyes  so  blue 
And  stains  your  lips  with  that  hot  hue. " 


Look,  look,  a  sail  upon  the  sea ! ' ' 
'Tis  sunlight  on  the  dogwood  tree. ' ' 
It  tacks !    And  now  it  comes  straight  on ! 
Merciful  God,  he  is  my  son. ' ' 
Mother,  I  must  go  down  to  the  sea ! ' ' 
Nay,  son,  my  son,  stay  home  with  me. ' ' 


1 1 


1  *  Look  how  they  beckon,  the  sheet  is  spread. ' ' 
"We  are  alone  and  I  am  afraid." 
* '  They  are  calling  me,  calling  me,  I  must  go  down. 
They  are  sailing  away  to  a  strange,  lonely  town. 
Mother,  come  with  me.  .  .  .  Mother !  .  .  .  'tis  done. ' ' 
' '  God  without  pity !    0  son,  little  son ! " 
[  90  ] 


AUSTRALIA  IN  LONDON 

Between  the  battle  over 

And  the  battle  just  begun 

They  give  six  days  to  wander 
And  take  their  bit  of  fun 

To  the  lads  whose  land  lies  under 
The  rays  of  the  rising  sun. 

No  English  home  is  theirs, 

They  have  no  English  friend — 

Australia 's  uncivilized, 

Squatters,  you  know,  no  end! 

So  up  they  come  to  London 
Their  bob  a  day  to  spend. 

And  a  lad  may  spend  it  in  the  pubs, 
Or  girls  are  cheap  as  thought — 

It's  not  the  warmth  of  English  beer 
Or  the  harlot's  kiss  that's  sought, 

But  those  about  to  die  have  need 
Of  tenderness,  though  bought. 

Between  the  battle  over 

And  the  battle  not  begun 

They  walk  the  streets  of  London, 
Strangers,  frowned  upon. 

Yet  their  eyes  are  grey  with  the  light 
Of  the  newly  risen  sun. 

[  91  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

A  wind  from  infinite  skies 

Ruffles  always  their  hair, 
And  the  look  of  the  birds  of  the  sun, 

Lonely,  disdainful,  aware, 
Is  the  look  of  their  mouth  and  their  eyes ; 

They  are  the  dreamers  who  dare. 

They  bear  no  arms  because  they  must, 
They  wage  no  conscript's  war, 

They  fight  for  neither  English  king, 
Nor  tsar  nor  emperor ; 

They  heard  that  freedom's  cause  was  struck, 
And  freedom  is  their  star. 

Sons  of  the  rising  sun, 

With  swift  un-English  eyes, 
Not  fair  with  white  and  red, 

But  burnt  by  flaming  skies, 
And  scornful  with  such  youth 

As,  boasting,  fights  and  dies ! 

Along  the  Strand  they  swing 

With  haversack  and  gun, 
Their  broad,  brown  hats  caught  up 

One  side  as  if  in  fun, 
And  at  their  tunic's  throat 

The  sign  of  the  rising  sun. 

And  London  furnishes, 

Though  pious-eyed,  askance, 

[  92  ] 


AUSTRALIA  IN  LONDON 

Her  harlots  and  her  pubs 

To  these  whose  very  glance 

Is  sunlight,  and  who  march 
To-morrow  into  France. 

To  these  so  infinitely  young, 
So  passionate  to  live, 

That  they  can  turn  a  harlot's  kiss 
To  love,  and  gladly  give 

What's  left  of  them  to  death, 
And  then  have  all  to  give. 

Sons  of  the  rising  sun, 

I,  from  across  the  sea, 

Drink  to  your  gathered  youth 
And  your  gallant  chivalry. 

And  I  would  to  God  by  your  side 
We  fought,  as  you,  to  be  free. 

December,  1916 


IN  OUR  YARD 

Moses,  Moses,  seeing  God 
In  a  bush  that  burned, 

Moses,  Moses,  hearing  God 
Advising,  unconcerned, 

I  believe  you,  for  myself 

Saw  Him  plain  and  heard- 

Others  saw  a  myrtle  bush 

That  held  a  mocking-bird. 


A  WOOD  SONG 

My  love  is  a  bush  in  bloom, 

My  love  is  a  bird  in  the  air, 

My  love  is  an  April  day, 

And  a  wind  with  golden  hair. 

A  melody  is  my  love 

That  trembles  and  glistens  and  goes, 
A  forest  in  bud  is  my  love 

Where  hidden  laughter  flows. 

Good-bye,  0  sweet-lipped  maiden, 

0  trusted  friend,  adieu! 
My  old  love  is  my  new  love 

And  dearer  far  than  you. 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERD'S  SONG 

(13th  Century) 

The  leaves,  the  little  birds,  and  I, 

The  fleece  clouds  and  the  sweet,  sweet  sky, 

The  pages  singing  as  they  ride 

Down  there,  down  there  where  the  river  is  wid< 

Heigh-ho,  what  a  day !    What  a  lovely  day ! 

Even  too  lovely  to  hop  and  play 

With  my  sheep, 
Or  sleep 

In  the  sun ! 

And  so  I  lie  in  the  deep,  deep  grass 
And  watch  the  pages  as  they  pass, 
And  sing  to  them  as  they  to  me 
Till  they  turn  the  bend  by  the  poplar  tree. 
And  then — 0  then,  I  sing  right  on 
To  the  leaves  and  the  lambs  and  myself  alone ! 
For  I  think  there  must  be 
Inside  of  me 
A  bird! 


ADVENTURE 

Who  would  not  love  to  go 
Out  where  the  breakers  blow, 
Curling  and  green  and  slow, 

With  a  rose  sail  ? 
Lands  there  are  far  away, 
Marvelous  in  the  spray, 
Turquoise  by  night,  by  day 

Gold  as  the  grail. 
Morning 's  the  time  to  start 
Just  with  a  tipsy  heart. 
Wisdom  a  tiny  part 

Taking,  you  fail. 


TO  BUTTERFLY 

Do  you  remember  how  the  twilight  stood 
And  leaned  above  the  river  just  to  see 
If  still  the  crocus  buds  were  in  her  hood 
And  if  her  robes  were  gold  or  shadowy  ? 
Do  you  remember  how  the  twilight  stood 
When  we  were  lovers  and  the  world  our  wood  ? 

And  then,  one  night,  when  we  could  find  no  word 
But  silence  trembled  like  a  heart — like  mine ! — 
And  suddenly  that  moon-enraptured  bird 
Awoke  and  all  the  darkness  turned  to  wine  ? 
How  long  ago  that  was !    And  how  absurd 
For  us  to  own  a  wood  that  owned  a  bird ! 

They  tell  me  there  are  magic  gardens  still, 
And  birds  that  sleep  to  wake  and  dream  to  sing, 
And  streams  that  pause  for  crocus  skies  to  fill ; 
But  they  that  told  were  lovers  and  'twas  spring. 
Yet  why  the  moon  to-night 's  a  daffodil 
When  it  is  March Do  you  remember  still? 


[  98  ] 


AGRICOL.E 

I  watch  the  farmers  in  their  fields 

And  marvel  secretly. 
They  are  so  very  calm  and  sure, 

They  have  such  dignity. 

They  know  such  simple  things  so  well, 
Although  their  learning's  small, 

They  find  a  steady,  brown  content 
Where  some  find  none  at  all. 

And  all  their  quarrellings  with  God 

Are  soon  made  up  again ; 
They  grant  forgiveness  when  He  sends 

His  silver,  tardy  rain. 

Their  pleasure  is  so  grave  and  full 
When  gathered  crops  are  trim, 

You  know  they  think  their  work  was  done 
In  partnership  with  Him. 

Then,  why,  when  there  are  fields  to  buy, 

And  little  fields  to  rent, 
Do  I  still  love  so  foolishly 

Wisdom  and  discontent? 


RIOLAMA 

(After  reading  Hudson's  "Green  Mansions") 

There  is  a  land  beyond  the  lands  you  know, 
Circled  by  silver  veils  of  woven  rain 
And  green,  clear  sunsets  with  the  moon  in  tow 
And  woods  and  dark  savannahs  of  wild  grain. 

I  have  not  wandered  in  the  forests  there, 
I  have  not  watched  its  willowed  waters  flow, 
I  have  not  breathed  its  leafy,  upland  air, 
And  yet,  and  yet,  it  is  the  land  I  know. 

Its  people 's  speech  that  my  heart  echoes  so 
To  you  were  wild  birds  singing  in  their  vine, 
And  other  dreams  and  other  loves  they  know, 
But  all  their  dreams  and  all  their  loves  are  mine. 

They  are  my  people !    I  am  lost  with  you 
And  only  guess  the  ways  that  I  should  go ; 
Forever  homesick,  baffled,  yearning  to 
My  native  land  that  I  shall  never  know. 


[  100  ] 


A  BALLAD  OF  ST.  SEBASTIEN 


Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
The  archer  of  the  King  I  be. 
Strip  off  thine  armor,  strong  and  bright, 
And  naked  stand  against  yon  tree 
For  target  to  mine  arrows'  flight; 
This  is  the  King's  command  to  thee. 

0  Archer,  draw  thy  long  grey  bow, 
Thine  arrows  loosen,  wing  by  wing; 
Naked  I  stand  against  the  tree ; 

1  am  obedient  to  the  King. 


II 

Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
I  fit  an  arrow  in  my  bow, 
With  poisoned  laughter  it  is  shod. 

0  naked  knight,  with  head  bent  low, 
Thus  slaves  bend  down  to  take  the  rod- 

1  doubt  if  blood  so  meek  can  flow ! 

0  marksman  pale,  with  eyes  of  mist, 
Close  to  my  side  I  heard  it  sing ! 
And  thou  must  choose  a  goodlier  shaft 
Than  laughter  levelled  at  my  King. 

[  101  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

III 

Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
I  choose  me  seven  arrows  old, 
And  never  the  heart  of  man  they  miss ; 
Two  red,  one  green,  two  black,  one  gold, 
And  one  soft-falling  like  a  kiss. 
Call  up  thy  spirits,  Knight,  be  bold ! 

Blood,  blood,  it  flows !  and  oh,  the  kiss 
Upon  my  heart  of  that  warm  thing ! 
Yet  shoot  another  sheaf,  for  still 
I  am  but  wounded  for  my  King ! 


IV 

Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
Behold  a  barb  that  takes  away 
The  love  of  one  thou  lovest  best. 
The  love  it  takes  it  does  not  slay, 
But  leaves  it  in  another's  breast.  .  .  . 
With  tears  the  ancient  barb  is  grey. 

Oh,  can  it  be  the  King  ordains 
This  agony  that  slays  the  spring  ? 
But  for  the  years  that  thou  wast  loved, 
Kneel  down,  0  heart,  and  bless  the  King. 

Y 

Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
Dost  thou  still  turn  thy  pain  to  praise  ? 
Wilt  thou  not  die,  though  crimson-flecked? 
[  102  ] 


A  BALLAD  TO  ST.  SEBASTIEN 

Then  take  the  shaft  that  never  strays, 

'Tis  called  "The  Death  of  Self  -Respect  "— 

Its  song  is  laughter,  and  it  slays. 

There  is  no  quarry  left  for  death, 

And  I  am  dead  without  death's  sting  .   .   . 

Take  all,  take  all;  Thou  gavest  all, 

0  Lord  of  mine,  my  Lord  the  King ! 

VI 

Sebastien,  Sebastien, 
What  is  the  faith  that  flows  and  fills 
Thy  heart  with  strength,  thine  eyes  with  light 
While  ruby-red  the  life-blood  spills  ? 
Look  up,  look  up,  0  dying  Knight — 
That  faith  this  blunted  arrow  kills ! 

And  me  ...  No  archer  thou  of  His ! 
Back,  back !    This  death,  this  suffering 
Are  but  thy  sport  .  .  .  Lift  not  my  head !  .  .  . 
0  pale-eyed  man,  art  thou  the  King? 


[  103  ] 


THE  QUESTION 

Is  it  enough  to  feel  the  opal  spring 

Burst  quivering  on  branch  and  bush  and  wing  ? 

To  kiss  the  soft-cheeked  air? 

To  know  the  world  is  fair? — 
Is  it  enough  ? 

Is  it  enough  to  see  man's  passionate 
Divinity  break  shimmering  on  fate? 

His  soul 's  devout  desire 

Flame  and  go  out  like  fire  ? — 
Is  it  enough  ? 

Will  beauty  and  nobility  descried, 

Will  anything  save  touching  hands  and  side 

Assuage  us  to  confess 

Through  life's  unhappiness, 
It  is  enough  ? 


[  104  ] 


EVENING  LINES 

Ah,  dreamy  world  and  liquid-sounding  leaves, 
Ah,  skies  that  on  your  bosom  bear  the  dawn 
And  evening,  and  recurrent,  trembling  stars, 
Why  are  we  strangers  to  your  certain  calm, 
Your  joy,  perennial  and  effortless  ? 
We  strive  to  understand ;  our  desperate  faith 
Leans  listening  against  the  universe 
To  catch  some  meaning,  some  deep  harmony 
To  still  the  throbbing  silence  that  we  hear. 
In  vain,  in  vain !    There  is  an  inner  music, 
But  'tis  no  serenade  to  please  our  ears. 
When  the  last  human  heart  is  underground, 
Great  sunsets  still  will  aureole  the  west, 
No  whit  less  gorgeous  for  that  they  're  unseen. 
And  this  divine  frail  moon  will  not  delay 
Because  her  lovers'  lips  are  yet  more  pale 
Than  when  her  yearning  parted  them.    Ah,  no — 
Not  listeners  we,  but  part,  ourselves,  of  some 
Mysterious  harmony,  perhaps  heard  elsewhere. 


[  105  ] 


FROM  A  SOLDIER'S  NOTEBOOK 


A  VOLUNTEER'S  GRAVE 

Not  long  ago  it  was  a  bird 

In  vacant,  lilac  skies 
Could  stir  the  sleep  that  hardly  closed 

His  laughing  eyes. 

But  here,  where  murdering  thunders  rock 

The  lintels  of  the  dawn, 
Although  they  shake  his  shallow  bed 

Yet  he  sleeps  on. 

Another  spring  with  rain  and  leaf 

And  buds  serenely  red, 
And  this  wise  field  will  have  forgot 

Its  youthful  dead. 

And,  wise  of  heart,  who  loved  him  best 

Will  be  forgetting,  too, 
Even  before  their  own  beds  gleam 

With  heedless  dew. 

Yet  what  have  all  the  centuries 
Of  purpose,  pain,  and  joy 

Bequeathed  us  lovelier  to  recall 
Than  this  dead  boy! 


[  109  ] 


NIGHT  OFF  GALLIPOLI 

(Eight  Spirit  Songs) 


A  delirious  voice : 

Sweeter  than  sleep  and  the  dream  of  death 
To  float  on  the  flow  of  the  tempest's  breath — 
A  leaf  in  the  lift  of  the  air's  caresses, 
A  bloom  in  the  sway  of  the  sea 's  brown  tresses 
A  bird  that  the  hawk  of  the  storm  possesses 
Death,  thou  art  best, 
Being  rest. 

II 
Voice  of  a  youthful  Turk : 

If  only  up  the  straits  the  tempest  flew, 
Up  the  blue  waters,  past  the  perilous  spray 
To  where  the  clustered  cypresses  are  blue 
Above  pale  stairs  that  touch  the  lisping  bay, 
I  should  not  care,  I  should  not  greatly  care — 
If  only  up  the  straits  the  tempest  flew ! 

If  only  up  the  straits  my  spirit  flew 
As  once  it  flew  when  sails  were  all  my  wings, 
To  that  deep  garden  where  the  moon  is  blue 
And  sea-sounds  soften  close-lipped  whisperings, 
I  should  not  care,  I  should  not  greatly  care — 
If  only  up  the  straits  my  spirit  flew ! 


NIGHT  OFF  GALLIPOLI 

Death  could  not  keep  me  from  the  arms  of  you, 
But  I  should  die  again  upon  your  mouth 
While  all  the  swaying  garden  changed  from  blue 
To  red,  and  softer  grew  your  bosom 's  south. 
I  should  not  care,  I  should  not  greatly  care, 
Dying  again  upon  the  mouth  of  you ! 


Ill 

An  English  voice : 

I  knew  the  stars  would  come, 
Brighter  than  English  stars 

And  purer  than  the  stars  of  battle ! 
They  shine  on  Thessaly, 
On  the  pale  Argive  plain, 

And  leave  a  lovelier  light  on  Lesbos. 

0  Grecian  stars,  how  oft 

At  home,  in  the  grey  sea, 
I  longed  to  know  the  lands  ye  guard ! 

Now  death,  propitious,  speeds 

My  soul  on  those  dark  tides 
"Whose  foam  ye  lit  when  Helen  fled. 

Blow,  wind  of  Tauris,  blow! 

This  is  the  sea  that  heard 
The  Lesbian 's  cry,  and  further  south 

The  shining  song  of  him 

Whose  heart  was  washed  with  tears. 
0  southward  blowing  wind,  blow  on ! 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

IV 
Voice  of  a  Breton  Fisherman : 

Douarnenez !  Douarnenez ! 
0  little  town  on  the  fishing  bay ! 
0  southern  sea,  too  soft,  too  blue, 

Let  me  thro' !  let  me  thro' ! 
Till  the  green  and  the  cold  of  the  western  sea 

And  the  lonely  cliffs  of  Brittany 
And  home,  my  home,  Douarnenez, 

Break  on  mine  eyes  with  the  breaking  day! 


Voice  of  an  English  poet : 

South !  .  .  .  These  stars  I  know !  .  .  .  And  south 

is  Greece ! 

0  Death,  one  gentleness  I  pray — 
Let  me  find  rest  on  that  divine,  sweet  shore, 
And  have  for  spirit-home  some  strip  of  Hellas ! 
Some  mountain  cove  in  hearing  of  the  sea, 
Some  fabled  fold,  perhaps,  of  Helicon, 
Trod  once  by  silver  feet,  now  silvery 
With  heliotrope  and  sprinkled  sheep, 
There  bide  in  quiet  death's  prepared  event.  .  .  . 
After  the  snows,  when  April  nights  grow  warm 
And  lilies  of  the  moon  blanch  field  and  crag, 
When    tenderly    the    wind    blows    down    from 

Thessaly, 
And  dews  are  deep,   and  down  the  mountains 

glide 
On  feather  feet  the  drifting  dreams 


NIGHT  OFF  GALLIPOLI 

Whose  land  is  not  the  land  of  sleep — 
Ah,  then,  perhaps,  the  spirit  that  incited  so 
My  heart  to  song  in  earthlier  days, 
Balked  of  the  dear  delight  of  utterance, 
Muted  beyond  all  hope  of  speech, 
May  tinge  with  sharper  longing  the  lament 
Of  that  sole  bird  that  sings  unto  his  heart, 
Or  deeplier  dye  the  coral-mouthed  blooms 
That  hide  but  do  not  hush  the  river's  brink. 

VI 

A  Canadian  voice : 

God,  God,  how  well  they  meant, 

How  utterly  they  failed ! 

Why  wilt  Thou  give  us  strength, 

Courage  and  fortitude, 

But  leave  us  without  reason,  impotent? 

They  poured  us  out  like  water. 

The  thirsty  ground  still  drank, 

And  still  they  poured ;  until 

The  hills  above  the  sea 

Were  red  as  sunset,  but  unconquered  still. 

Such  blood,  so  young,  so  proud ! 

No  Homer  will  rise  up 

To  sing  their  deeds ;  for  deeds 

There  be  too  great  for  song, 

And  heroes  must  be  few  to  stir  the  rage. 

All  Canada  was  Ajax, 
And  India,  to  a  man, 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

As  fierce  as  Hector  was ! 

The  young  isles  of  the  south 

Blazed  like  Achilles  when  they  killed  his  friend. 

And  all  for  what  ?    For  nothing ! 

We,  who  in  the  west 

Had  crossed  perhaps  the  Rhine, 

Have  crossed  but  Lethe  here, 

And  won  but  failure  for  our  only  fame. 

There  never  was  a  cause 

So  worthy  to  be  won ! 

If  France  and  England  die, 

Freedom  and  faith  are  dead — 

Give  them,  0  God,  not  heroes '  hearts,  but  brains ! 

VII 

Voice  of  a  French  poet : 

And  so  the  songs  must  go  unsung, 
The  dreams  be  only  dreams.  .   .   . 
But  I  have  died  for  France !    There  is  no  fate 
So  worthy  them  her  august  blood  endues.  .   .  . 
"When  all  is  said,  what  is  the  poet 's  life  ? 
The  vulture's  ebb  between  sky  ecstasy 
And  carrion  of  earth!    Raptured,  superb, 
He  wheels  against  the  sun,  then  falls 
And  battens  on  the  refuse  beasts  refuse ! 
Somewhere  i'  the  compound,  rainbow  stuff 
And  sunset-cloud  and  green- winged  spray, 
There  creeps  the  taint,  the  particle  of  earth, 
That  marks  it  with  the  black  of  madness,  sin, 
or  quirk. 


NIGHT  OFF  GALLIPOLI 

Only  the  great  are  phoenix  of  the  sun, 
Unfathered  save  of  flame  and  dizzy  light ; 
They  only  keep,  unpausingly  and  pure, 
The  blue  enfeoffments  of  their  gorgeous  sire. 

Say  I  had  lived ;  which  height  had  I  attained  ? 

The  vulture 's  ?    Or  the  phoenix '  flaming  zone  ? 

Death  makes  all  questions  foolish  now.  .  .  . 

Yet  in  my  soul  I  know  there  was  a  thing  in  me 

Of  most  immortal  lineaments, 

Whose  speech  was  beauty  and  whose  thought  was 
prayer!  .    .   . 

But  even  so,  a  year,  a  hundred  years, 

A  thousand — the  loveliest  words  of  men 

Are  leaves  with  but  a  redder  tint  to  time. 

The  singers  pass ;  the  song  endures :  I  die ; 

But  somewhere  will  gush  up  the  crimson  fire 

That  lit  my  heart  to  songs  I  might  not  sing. 

And  there  was  France  to  die  for!    A  splendor's 
there 

Beyond  the  dimming  of  eternity ! 

Who  would  be  singer  now,  not  soldier,  who 

Would  live   for  Fame  when  he  could  die   for 
France, 

Fame,   too,   I  must  believe,  will   scorn  as  bas 
tard.  .   .   . 

She  had  no  need  of  songs  who  asked  my  life. 

Songs !    Here  was  a  deed  to  do 

More  gracious  and  more  splendid  than  all  songs ! 

And  I  have  done  that  deed; 

And  I  am  well  content. 

[  115  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

VIII 
A  host  of  spirits : 

We  fought  and  saw  the  stars  and  fell. 
To  fight  and  win  were  better ; 
To  fight  and  fall  is  well. 

Perhaps  a  god  directed  so 
We  should  be  overcome ; 
Perhaps ;  we  may  not  know. 

We  knew  the  trumpet  call  of  life ; 
We  knew  the  call  was  not 
To  victory,  but  strife. 

And  if,  indeed,  no  god  there  be 
That  hung  the  stars  we  saw, 
Yet  we  who  fought,  yea,  we 

Who  died,  out  on  the  bloody  sod, 
We  know  beyond  all  doubt 
In  us  there  was  a  god. 

Strong  Spirit,  who  hast  wrought 
A  fighting  world  for  men, 
Take  us ;  like  men  we  fought. 


[  116  ] 


SWALLOWS 

(Paris— May,  1918} 

Over  the  roofs  the  swallows  fly 

In  the  quiet  evening  air. 
Though  just  above  the  homes  of  men, 

They  have  not  any  care. 

The  women  on  the  balconies, 

That  watch  and  seem  to  see, 
The  birds  could  touch  them  with  their  wings, 

They  stand  so  quietly. 

So  quietly !    But  if  the  birds 

Had  cognizance  of  pain, 
Could  hear  the  prayers  that  quiver  past, 

They  would  not  fly  again. 


POPPY  FIELDS 

You  say  this  poppy  blooms  so  red 

Because  its  roots  were  daily  fed 

On  last  year's  cold  and  festering  dead? 

Such  is  the  blessed  way  of  earth; 

Oblivious,  intent  on  mirth, 

To  turn  rank  death  to  gorgeous  birth ! 

Even  this  brutal  agony, 
So  hideous,  so  foul,  will  be 
Romance  to  others,  presently. 

And  would  it  not  be  proud  romance 
Falling  in  some  obscure  advance 
To  rise,  a  poppy  field  of  France  ? 


ON  LEAVE 

I  have  reached  a  green,  green  island 

In  a  sea  without  a  shore. 
Behind  the  grey  waves  crumble, 

And  I  will  not  look  before. 

Here  there  are  music  and  leisure 

And  the  touch  of  a  tender  hand ; 

Here  is  my  golden  river 

And  the  warm,  wide  river  land. 

I  am  safe  to-day,  if  never; 

They  have  given  me  love  and  rest ; 
Sailing  the  sea  of  sorrow 

I  have  touched  at  the  isle  of  the  blest. 


[  119  ] 


TO  C.  P. 

Her  spirit 's  loveliness  was  such 
Her  body 's  loveliness  I  could  not  see ; 
I  only  know  her  eyes  were  heavenly  blue 
That  now  are  grey  with  tears  for  me. 


[  120  ] 


IN  FRANCE 

Let  not  a  foreign  earth  weigh  down  my  head, 
Nor  mingle  with  the  dust  that  was  my  heart ! 
Lay  me  among  my  own  when  I  am  dead, 
In  my  own  land,  eternally  a  part 
Of  all  I  know  and  love.    I  could  not  sleep 
With  strangers  here,  and  there  is  aching  need 
Of  sleep  after  much  weariness,  and  deep 
Were  mine  at  home.    It  is  a  place,  indeed, 
For  long,  untroubled  sleep.    All  summer  there 
The  pale  somnambulists  of  heaven  pass 
Immense  and  silver  through  the  turquoise  air, 
Trailing  their  purple  garments  on  the  grass. 

Though  friendless,  childless,  honorless  I  come, 
They  will  know  I  am  theirs ;  they  will  make  room. 


[  121  ] 


THE  SOLDIER  GENERATION 

We  are  the  sons  of  disaster, 
Deserted  by  gods  that  are  named, 
Thrust  in  a  world  with  no  master, 
Our  altars  prepared  but  unclaimed; 
Wreathed  with  the  blood-purple  aster, 
Victims,  foredoomed,  but  untamed. 

Behold,  without  faith  we  were  fashioned, 

Bereft  the  assuaging  of  lies; 

Thirsty  for  dreams  we  have  passioned, 

Yet  more  for  truth  that  denies ; 

Aware  that  no  powers  compassioned, 

We  have  turned  to  our  hearts  and  grown  wise. 

Leisure  we  loved  and  laughter; 
Our  portion  is  labor  and  pain ; 
For  home  we  are  given  a  rafter 
Of  wind  and  a  lintel  of  rain, 
And  all  that  our  hearts  followed  after 
Is  taken  and  naught  doth  remain. 

Yet  never  a  new  generation 
But  shall  live  by  the  battle  we  fight, 
And  prosper  of  our  immolation 
And  reap  of  our  anguish,  delight. 
Accepting  the  great  abnegation 
We  are  fathers,  not  children,  of  light. 
[  122  ] 


THE  SOLDIER  GENERATION 

Bruised  with  the  scourges  of  sorrow, 
Broke  with  the  terrible  rod, 
Bidden  for  respite  to  borrow 
A  poppy-red  swathe  of  the  sod, 
Yet  this  is  our  hope — that  to-morrow 
Will  yield  of  our  strivings,  God. 


[  123  ] 


AFTER  ANY  BATTLE 

Voice  of  Earth : 

These  are  my  children 's  voices !    Born 

Not  of  the  sun,  who,  for  a  heritage, 

Giveth  a  light  wherewith  to  see,  a  fire 

To  burn  away  the  dross  gat  from  my  loins ; 

Nor  of  the  moon  whose  sons  are  mad  with  beauty ; 

Nor  of  the  stars,  for  they,  thro '  change  and  drift, 

Behold  the  steadfast  heavens  and  the  pole. 

But  these  are  mine,  unfathered  and  unclaimed, 

Sustained  by  shining  from  no  sun  nor  moon 

Nor  fixed  nor  vagrant  star. 

Yea,  they  are  mine — 

Dust  that  is  black  with  my  ferocious  blood 

And  brackish  with  my  tears. 

Their  days  are  short  at  best,  and  they  return 

With  shuddering  to  my  bosom's  dark,  yet  now 

They  rob  each  other  of  the  little  years  their  due, 

And  choke  the  houses  of  the  whimpering  dead ! 

And  why  ?    0  why  ? 

Another 's  folly  wrought  this  holocaust, 

Calling  it  falsely  by  a  sacred  name, 

Turning  the  shambles  to  an  altar  stone, 

And  butchery  to  sacrifice ! 


[  124  ] 


THE  SQUIRE 

I  have  sung  me  a  stave,  a  stave  or  two, 
I  have  drunk  me  a  stoop  of  wine, 

I  have  roystered  across  a  world  that  was  dew 
And  a  sea  that  was  sunlight  and  brine. 

And  now  111  go  down  where  the  need  is  not 
Of  a  singing  heart,  but  a  sword ; 

I'll  fight  where  the  dead  men  welter  and  rot 
With  the  hard-pressed  hosts  of  the  Lord. 

And  should  I  come  back  again,  'twill  be 

With  accolade  and  spurs, 
And  many  a  tale  of  chivalry, 

And  the  deeds  of  warriors. 

And  should  I  not,  0  break  for  me 
No  buds  nor  funeral  boughs — 

I  go  with  the  noblest  company 
That  ever  death  did  house. 


[  125  ] 


FOR  THEM  THAT  DIED  IN  BATTLE 
(1914-1918) 

How  blossomy  must  be  the  halls  of  Death 

Against  the  coming  of  the  newly  dead ! 

How  sweet  with  woven  garlands  gathered 

From  pastures  where  the  pacing  stars  take  breath ! 

And  with  what  tender  haste,  each  with  his  wreath 

Of  welcome,  must  the  elder  dead  return 

To  greet  about  the  doors  with  dear  concern 

These  much-loved,  proud-eyed  farers  from  beneath. 

For  these  that  come,  come  not  forspent  with  years, 

Nor  bent  with  long  despair,  nor  weak  with  tears, 

They  mount  superbly  thro'  the  gold-flecked  air, 

The  light  of  immolation  in  their  eyes, 

The  green  of  youth  eternal  in  their  hair, 

And  Honor's  music  on  them  like  sunrise. 


[  126  ] 


THE  FARM  AGAIN 

(To  the  37th  Division) 

The  dreamy  rain  comes  down, 
And  cotton's  in  the  grass. 
The  farmers  all  complain — 
But  I  watch  armies  pass.  .  .  . 

The  ones  that  did  not  come 
From  Ivoiry  again 
Are  marching  down  the  road 
And  whistling  in  the  rain. 

The  forty-two  I  saw 
In  Olsene,  prone  and  pale, 
With  packs  and  helmets  on 
Pass  by  me,  young  and  hale. 

I  hear  their  laughter  plain — 
Some  blasphemous,  quaint  jest 
That  livens  up  their  step 
More  than  an  hour's  rest. 

They  talk  of  Montfaucon, 
Of  Thielt  and  Chryshautem; 
My  cotton  rows,  it  seems, 
Are  turnip  fields  to  them. 
[  127  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

It 's  hard  to  stay  indoors 
With  soldiers  marching  by. 
And  if  you've  hiked  and  fought 
It's  hard  until  you  die. 


Dim  Flanders  rain  comes  down, 
The  cotton's  in  the  grass; 
But  I  watch  wistfully 
Gay  phantom  armies  pass. 


[  128  ] 


AN  EPISTLE  FROM  CORINTH 

Paul  of  Tarsus,  I  have  enquired  of  Jesus 

And  meditated  much  and  read  your  words 

Directed  to  the  wise  Corinthians 

Of  whom  am  I.    There  is  much  beauty  in 

His  life  and  therefore  comfort,  and  there  is  beauty 

In  that  unreasoning  rush  of  eloquence 

Of  yours,  so  much  it  almost  caught  me  up 

And  made  me  Christian.    Such  is  the  power  of  faith 

Ablaze  in  one  we  know  to  be  no  fool ! 

I  watched  you  as  you  preached  that  day  in  Athens : 

You  are  no  fool,  nor  saint,  but  one  I  judge 

Of  intellect  that  somehow  has  caught  fire 

And  so  misleads  when  it  is  shiningest. 

I  had  hoped  to  find  in  you  or  in  your  Christ 

Some  answer  to  the  questions  that  unanswered 

Slay  our  wills  .  .  .  There 's  so  much  lost ! 

Parnassus  there  across  the  turquoise  gulf 

Still  holds  its  rose  and  snow  to  the  blown  sun, 

But  no  young  Phoebus  guides  the  golden  car, 

Nor  will  the  years'  returning  loveliness 

For  all  its  perfumed  broidure  bring  again 

The  Twelve  to  the  bright  mountain  place  they  loved. 

The  gods  of  Greece  are  dead,  forever  dead: 

The  Romans  substitute  idolatry; 

And  there's  such  peace  and  idleness  in  the  world 

As  gives  the  thinking  powers  full  scope  to  soar, 

And  soar  they  do,  but  in  red-beaked  bands 

[  129  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

That  darken  all  the  sun  and  nurture  find 
On  the  Promethean  bare  heart  of  man. 
How  strange  to  see  the  labor  of  the  world 
Straining  for  plenteous  food  and  drink  and  warmth, 
For  ease  and  freedom  and  the  right  to  choose, 
But  winning  these  win  only  doubt  and  anguish ! 
Is  this  accessory  to  our  coming  here? 
Is  there  no  answer  waiting  to  be  found  ? 

I  judge  the  struggle  for  perfection  if 

Engaged  in  long  enough,  say  thro  the  years 

Of  gorgeous  youth,  the  ashen  middle  years, 

Will  end  in  calm,  a  kind  of  stale  content — 

No  gush  and  quiver  in  the  leafless  tree ! 

But  that's  the  body's  dying,  not  the  fight's 

Reward,  old  age  not  victory ! 

Yet  who,  save  those  few  souls  and  stern 

That  passionate  unto  perfection  walk 

The  alien  earth  scornful  and  sure, 

Would  pledge  themselves  to  life-long  virtue 

Except  exchanged  for  happiness,  here 

Or  hereafter?    Who,  I  ask  and  hear  no  answer. 

'Twas  for  the  few  that  Socrates  had  thought: 

Your  Jesus  had  profounder  bitterness 

And,  wroth  against  a  universal  woe, 

Conceived  a  universal  anodyne — 

Heaven,  his  father's  Kingdom,  Paradise. 

Hence  his  success  with  slave  and  sick  and  poor — 
The  solace  for  their  skimped  experience 
They  find  in  dreams  of  restitution  and 
A  promised  land,  whose  king  will  dower  and 
[  130  ] 


AN  EPISTLE  FROM  CORINTH 

Reward  their  loyalty  with  bliss  eternal. 

This  promise  of  his  kingdom  and  the  immense 

Illusion  that  he  had,  shared  still  by  you, 

Of  coming  once  again  and  shortly  to 

Select  mankind  for  punishment  or  saving 

Are  above  all  the  concepts  that  ensure 

His  following,  which  when  the  fact  disproves 

Will  fall  away  and  be  forgotten  till 

His  name  will  vanish  and  the  careless  years 

Hide  with  their  passing  sandals'  dust  his  dream. 

Yet  in  this  Jesus  I  detect  always 

Something  more  true  and  sound  and  saving  than 

The  postulates  of  his  philosophy. 

Compared  with  Socrates  his  intellect 

Lacked  wonder,  self-delight,  sufficiency. 

The  Athenian  in  his  noblest  eloquence 

Assumed  himself  a  son  of  God,  yet  him 

I  understood,  somehow :  it  seemed  at  least 

Poetically  true.    But  when  your  Jew 

Speaks  of  his  father,  all  that  I  never  learned 

Is  near,  I  cannot  think,  but  I  can  feel, 

And  'spite  of  me,  I  have  the  sense  of  wisdom 

Simpler  and  fruitfuller  and  wiser  than 

All  wisdom  we  had  hardly  learned  before, 

That  turns  irrelevant  and  pitiful 

Much  we  had  frayed  and  tattered  our  poor  souls 

In  guessing.    Yet  when  I  turn  to  you  for  counsel — 

And  who  of  his  untutored  band  but  you 

Is  qualified  in  wide  and  leisured  learning 

To  parley  equal-minded  with  a  Greek? — 

[  131  ] 


IN  APEIL  ONCE 

I  find  a  blur  of  words,  a  wall  of  thought, 
That  more  completely  hide  the  god  I  sense 
Than  the  fantastic  patter  of  his  humble 
Ignorant  worshipers  .    .    .  Paul,  Paul,  I'd  give 
My  Greek  inheritance,  my  wealth  and  youth, 
To  speak  one  evening  with  that  Christ  you  love 
And  never  saw  and  cannot  understand ! 

But  he  is  dead  and  you  alone  are  left, 

Irascible  and  vehement  and  sure, 

For  me  to  turn  to  with  the  bleak  bad  question — 

Do  we  then  die  ?    Or  shall  we  be  raised  up  ?  .  .  . 

There  is  the  hope  always  of  other  life, 

After  this  choking  room  a  width  of  air, 

A  star  perhaps  after  this  sallow  earth, 

After  this  place  of  prayer,  a  place  of  deeds. 

No  man  but  in  his  heart's  locked  privacy 

Dares  hope  this  muffled  transiency  we  hate 

For  its  most  bitter  and  ignoble  failure 

Ends  not  with  what  our  ignorance  calls  death. 

A  Christ  with  promise  of  eternity 

And  proof  could   Christianize   a  hundred  hundred 

worlds ! 

There  are  such  glimpses  of  the  never-seen, 
Such  breathings  from  the  outer  infinite, 
The  possible  hath  such  nobility 
As  makes  us  suppliants  for  further  chance — 
Not  repetition,  but  more  scope,  0  Powers ! 

Yet  better  purposeless  mortality 
Than  this  mad  answer  you  proclaim  to  us. 
We  shall  rise  up,  you  say:  so  far  well  said. 
[  132  ] 


AN  EPISTLE  FEOM  CORINTH 

This  essence  that  disquieteth  itself 

With  less  than  truth,  that  will  not  tolerate 

The  fare  whereon  'tis  fed,  but  sickens  so 

For  immortalities  that  it  doth  shape 

Of  its  own  yearning — piteously  methinks — 

Gods  and  a  dwelling  place  of  distant  stars, 

This  surely  hath  a  strength  beyond  mere  days! 

But  then  you  add,  with  equal  certainty, 

"There's  too  a  resurrection  of  the  flesh." 

This  is  your  creed  and  final  comfort,  Jew, 

That  these  our  gyves  and  chains  are  never  slipped, 

That  this  captivity  we  thought  a  term 

Carks  to  eternity,  do  what  we  will! 

The  impediments  to  every  high  resolve, 

The  traitors  to  our  nascent  deity, 

The  perfumed,  warm,  corporeal  parts  of  us 

That  drug  to  sleep  or  death  the  impetuous  will, 

These  are  partakers  of  such  after-life 

As  our  fierce  souls  may  grievously  attain! 

Tarsus,  I'll  not  accept  eternal  life 

Hampered  and  foiled  by  this  vile  thing  of  flesh ! 

There  is  no  fire  can  burn  it  pure,  no  rain 

Can  wash  it  clean,  no  death  can  scourge  it  slave ! 

The  spirit  that  is  holier  than  light 

Its  touch  will  stain,  its  vesture  will  pollute! 

You  cannot  understand,  you  are  a  Jew ! 
Your  pores,  unsentient,  have  never  drunk 
The  perfume  of  a  bush  that's  red  by  dawn, 
And  were  you  here  upon  this  roof  tonight 
With  Corinth  at  your  feet,  you'd  never  know 
[  133  ] 


IN  APRIL  ONCE 

It  was  a  night  of  summer,  never  feel 

The  straining  on  the  slender  leash  of  will 

At  all  the  murmurs  and  warm  silences. 

There 's  a  girl 's  laugh  .  .  .  and  footsteps  loitering. 

You'd  never  guess  why  they  are  slow,  nor  hear 

The  half-words  breathed,  nor  smile  to  find  yourself 

Wondering  if  the  kiss  were  mouth  or  throat.  .  .  . 

Perfumes!  .  .  . 

The  night- wind  wakes  but  to  caress, 

And  kissing  sleeps  .  .  .  the  lover's  way.  .  .  . 

Gods,  gods !    This  fool  would  have  the  harlots'  mouth 

Immortal  as  the  soul  of  Socrates ! 

Forgive  me,  follower  of  Jesus.    I 

Am  Greek,  all  Greek;  I  know  the  loveliness 

Of  flesh  and  its  sweet  snare,  and  I  am  hurt 

At  finding  nothing  where  I  sought  for  much. 

'0  Paul,  had  you  been  more  as  other  men 

Your  wisdom  had  been  wiser !     Christ,  perhaps — 

But  I  was  born  too  late  and  so  miss  all. 

see  no  aim  nor  end.     And  yet  myself 
Hopeless  of  aught  of  profit  from  the  fight 
Fight  on.  ...  Perhaps  there 's  something  truer  than 
'      The  truth  we  can  deduce.  .  .   .  And  after  all 
I      Our  best  is  but  a  turning  toward  the  stars, 
'     An  upward  gaze.  .    .   . 


[  134  ] 


FEINTED  IN   THE   UNITED   STATES   OF  AMERICA 


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LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  DAVIS 

Book  Slip-50m-8,'69(N831s8)458-A-31/5 


N9  681505 


Percy,   W.A. 
In  April  once. 


PS3531 

E65 

16 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
DAVIS 


